


It's Not About Control

by jehanjetaime



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends With Benefits, Multi, Nonbinary Jehan, POV Third Person, Recovery, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Enjolras, Trans Éponine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime
Summary: New Message from Combeferre <3, 3:05"Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving."    The idea of change is hard; imagining what could happen without change is even harder. Grantaire must learn what means the most to him before he can take a step towards the light.Third person POV re-write.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A re-write of my fic "It's Not About Control" done in 3rd person rather than the original 1st person. Title from Bastille's "Oblivion."

"You frighten me, Grantaire," he says, watching from the doorway. No one remains in Grantaire's sight but him, backlit from the hallway, shadow blending into the darkness of the apartment. Grantaire says nothing, and the other turns to whisper hurriedly to Combeferre.

Grantaire raises his head as best he can and listens to them squabble, in only the way people who have known each other since infancy can. With only their tones, hushed sounds rising and falling, he knows what they are saying. 'We cannot leave him here.' With a wave of his hand, he scoffs. "What's all this? Don't be ridiculous! Dear Jehan will be home and you won't have to worry about me."

Grantaire can feel the disdain from that paragon of men, as mighty as the rest of him, as he tosses that hair from his face. That beautiful yellow; bless TRYP1, that allele which endlessly fascinates their Combeferre, their Joly, their R. Bless Melanesia, bless his parents for immigrating. His skin is dark, his hair is light, and despite all of D'Urville's speculating on the ugliness of the race, Enjolras is beautiful. He is enchanting. Of all of the countries in the world, France is lucky that he was born here. 

"We will never hear the end of it from Gavroche if we do that," Combeferre says in his calm voice. He sounds as buttercups look, mellow and warm and creamy. His knowing eyes gaze out at Gratnatire as he steps around Enjolras, dark behind his black frames, under those thick locs that he can never keep tied up as he would like. "It was hard enough to get him to leave as it was."

Another wave of Grantaire's hand. "Then don't tell him. As far as he is concerned, you both sat with me and sang lullabies until Jehan returned, and they made us all veggie dogs and nothing is amiss." He would never believe it, the little apprentice, he is much too smart. Anyways, even if Grantaire did not know that, the looks these two give him would let him know. "Fine," he says in a great show of acquiescence - or as great as he can manage, laying on his couch and nearly pinned down by not only Jehan's massive cat Oscar, but his own boxer, who is perched on Grantaire's feet as if to tell him 'your'e not going anywhere.' Hoisted by his own Cheese Curd. "Omit the lullabies, then. but leave the veggie dogs."

They share a look, the one that infuriates Courfeyrac, and Grantaire fears that he will have to fight for the right to wallow alone. But they go, leaving him covered in animals and lit by a marathon of How It's Made, on the French-Canadian channel Grantiare pays extra for, just for this. There is a milk jug full of water next to him, complete with bendy straw, that Combeferre insists he finish. Grantaire intends to - the guide says that the next episode covers canned onions and he is eager to see how they go from ground to can, but before one bulb is plucked or one long, swirling sip is taken, he is gone. Gone to a hard day and heavy eyelids.


	2. Ch. 1

New Message from Combeferre <3, 3:05pm  
'Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving."  
____________________________

Grantaire wakes to light and sound and Oscar thumping to the ground, meowing loudly and insistently. That can only mean that Jehan is home, returned to their little apartment. With bleary eyes, he looks at the clock. 4:15pm. They're home almost two hours early; someone's told them. Grantaire shuts his eyes and makes no noise at first, hoping to avoid the uncomfortable conversation for as long as possible. He can't stand the idea of Jehan's eyes pooling under their glasses, their entire soft, freckled face falling as Grantaire recounts what he remembers and what he's been told of the last 7 or so hours. So he feigns sleep until they approach him, smelling of carnations and lilac and roses after a shortened shift at the flower shop they love so much. He hears them step close, hear their soft sigh, and his heart breaks for what he has done to them, what he will continue to do to them. "Grantaire?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here," Grantaire mumbles, opening his eyes. They must be bloodshot - either that or he has lost what little looks he had since this morning - for they gasp. He reaches up to pat their hand, and try to sit, but the motion sets his empty stomach spinning. 

It must show, for Jehan shakes their head and gently pushes him back onto the couch. Their eyes dart to the water. "Drink your water," they say, tapping the jug with a loafer. "And I'll make something to eat."

"Veggie dogs?"

They shoot down Grantaire's suggestion with a withering glance that is surprising from such a mousy looking person. "Soup," they say before returning to the kitchens. _There goes my hope of the day turning around,_ he thinks. Grantaire hears the sadly familiar sound of Jehan gathering his bottles from the kitchen; the is not the first time that they have done this. But this IS the first time he hear not just empty bottles, but liquid sloshing. Caps snapping. Corks popping. Tops unscrewing. And more liquid, this time pouring. Pouring down the sink. Despite his lurching stomach, Grantaire pulls himself to his feet (after yanking them free of Cheese Curd) and stumbles to the kitchen. He stands in the doorway, watching Jehan pour a fortune in green and red and amber gold down the drain without even the water running to mask neither scent nor sound. "I thought that you were making soup."

No answer. They just grab another bottle and slam it down into the sink. The brittle neck shatters and Grantaire praises whoever is listening that they were holding the thing by the body. They don't rush to clean the broken glass or the wine, expensive wine, or even dab the blood from a small cut he can see forming on their hand. They stand, solidly, silently, staring at the plants above the sink, the hanging pots and pans grazing herbs and leaves. And to be honest, Grantaire is frightened. When Jehan is angry, truly angry, they are something to behold. But then their shoulders shake and he realizes that it is not with anger but with sorrow. "Y-you said that you would be careful."

"Jehan..Jean..."

"You SAID that you would be CAREFUL! You said that you had a handle on this, that it wasn't that BAD, that you..." They whip around and thump an open hand against his chest. Despite how thick their voice is with tears, Grantaire is surprised to see a wet, red face. Their tortured expression is all he sees, all he is. He barely registers a second thump, but he notices when that hand curls into his hoodie - no, it's not Grantaire's. Paris- Sud is scrawled across his chest, and it smells slightly of mothballs. This is Combeferre's hoodie that Jehan is digging their nails, crescented with dirt, into, that Jehan is wrinkling as they mold their delicate hand into a hardened fist. And then their hair, long, a warm, chestnutty red, is all Grantaire can see. They have their forehead pressed to his collarbone, and their weeping is so heartbreaking that he can do nothing but wrap them up in his arms. "Even your embrace has weakened."

"Forgive me, Jehan." They tremble against him, as they did when Oscar was at the vet's, as they did that night they were mugged, as they did after every single beauty broke their heart, as they did after every tragedy in the world. Only this time they are trembling for Grantaire, out of love for Grantaire. Jehan and Grantaire are not a couple; they never have been and they never need to be. The relationship is strong enough, close enough, without the romance. Jehan has their many flings, but Grantaire knows that it is the owner of the hoodie warming him that their heart beats for. Not that they would confess - at least not yet. That poem has yet to be composed. And everyone in Paris knows who Grantaire follows. There is no doubt that Jehan and Grantaire are soulmates, only of a different caliber. They are both romantics at heart; no romance needs to exist between them. There is no room. "I...I don't know. Things got carried away. Out of hand. I was too much, I drank too much."

They finally curl their arm about Grantaire, cupping a wobbly hand around his shoulder blade. "Gavroche found you." His whispered 'I know' goes either unheard or unheeded. "Gavroche, of all people, found you on the floor in a pool of your own vomit. Barely breathing."

"You've been talking to Combeferre," he offers.

"Damn right I have!" The curse from their lips surprises them as much as it does Grantaire, he thinks, but they power on. "He texted me , and I called on the way home. He told me everything." Their face remains buried against him, voice muffled through fabric and hair. "Gavroche worships the very ground you walk on and he had to see you like that. Don't you think hes seen enough debauchery for one life time?”

That hadn't occurred to Grantaire, and that fact alone angers him. "Then we'll take away his key, is that what you want?" He and Éponine had both been given one, back when things were still ugly, their parents still in the picture. But once she hit eighteen and was granted custody of Gavroche, Éponine had given hers back despite protests. Gavroche had kept his.

"Take it away?" They pull away now, the fire in their eyes blazing. "Take it AWAY?! Why would I do that? Someone needs to watch you, apparently, and if that has to be a 12 year old boy then I will NOT block his access to you." Then their lips wobble and they throw their arms around him again. "I'm scared, Grantaire."

 _"You frighten me, Grantaire."_ His golden voice echoes in Grantaire, mingling and copulating with Jehan's whimper. He scares them. Frightens them. Something inside of Grantaire tells him that he should just leave, remove himself from their lives and provide relief for all of them. But he smells Jehan's shampoo, thinks of the face Enjolras makes when he's trying not to laugh at one of his jokes, and Grantaire knows that he never could. He couldn't leave Gavroche and Éponine, he could not walk down the street knowing he wouldn't run into Chetta and see what colour her hair is that day, wouldn't see Joly and make him laugh by carrying him across the street, wouldn't find Bousset in some jam and weasel a way of it with him. Life without his friends is nothing at all. He cannot leave them, as selfish as it is. 

Grantaire pets Jehan's hair, then pushes them gently away by the shoulders. He bends down and kisses them softly on the corner of the mouth. "There is nothing to be frightened of. Here, let me show you." It destroys him absolutely to take his beloved bottles and dump their contents down the drain, but the hopeful delight on Jehan's face makes it a little easier to empty every one. He cleans off their hand, bandages it with a Hello Kitty bandaid, and kisses the top of the bandaid.

He is unsurprised to find them in his room that night. They had Grantaire eat dinner, drink water, and that left him famished. His ravenous appetite seemed to please them, for he did get his veggie dogs for a snack that night. And a warm body in his bed. They had shared a bed many times before that, both chastely and not so much. Grantaire and Jehan were never lovers in the romantic sense, more the classical sense. Their bodies let them bond, and as Jehan moves with him that night, warm and soft and fragrant, their tattooed thighs straddling his waist, he knows that he has to do something. Their soft cries in Grantaire's ear are both pleasure and pleading and offering and need, a great need. Need for him, for him to be well. He doesn't know how to be well, but in that moment, his best friend moving on top of him so he could see the pleasure swell with the red of their cheeks, Grantaire knows that he will do his damnedest to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping in! <3


	3. Ch. 2

That morning Grantaire wakes up under Jehan to hear a familiar fluttering around the kitchen. Gavroche has invited himself over for breakfast. He realizes that he's ravenous, still, and inches myself out from under Jehan to change from grey sweatpants to blue, just as worn and comfortable. A quick brush of his teeth and he moves out to the kitchen. Before Grantaire even sees him, Gavroche has his still too thin arms locked around his middle. He yawns and pats Gavroche's head. "I'm alright." He still clings to Grantaire, and that this young boy who has been through so much can still weep (while trying to hide it) for him is touching. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," Gavroche says, pulling away to hide his face, as well as to get the mix Jehan ordered from some foodie packaging service or another. "You sit!" Grantaire chuckles and pull out his phone as he complies. Two texts, the first from Enjolras, which still makes his heart skip a beat. "Text me when you wake up." In response, Grantaire just sends him a picture of Gavroche at the oven. The same picture is his response to Éponine, who sent the other text asking if her brother arrived. They only live a couple blocks away, but she's always on high alert. Not that Grantaire can blame her; she's done a lot to save her family, IS doing a lot. But Gavroche can take care of himself, and apparently Grantaire as well. He's silent as he works this time, which is odd. He is either mad or scared. Maybe both. For the hundredth time Grantaire curses himself for letting GAVROCHE find him. I let him cook and soon enough Jehan comes down the hallway in their hideous bathrobe - they must have stopped in their own room. 

They greet both with a kiss on the forehead. "Are we being treated this morning?" they ask, grabbing up the ancient teapot and heading to the sink. "Gavroche's famous pancakes?" That makes Gavroche smile, which in turn pleases Grantaire. "I remember the first time you made us those, or tried. Grantaire was all bloody knuckled from that match, I was sick, and sweet little Gavroche, no older than seven, came over to feed us." They pinch his flushed cheek and he whines for them to stop, batting that fluttering hand away.

"But they didn't come out right. Or at all!" Grantaire says with a laugh, which aggravates his tired abdomen. But he don't care; it's a jolly feeling just to laugh. "Hard as a rock, stuck to the pan! We had to throw them out, pan included!" Jehan laughs and even Gavroche chuckles sheepishly. it's almost as if nothing had changed, as if yesterday Gavroche had not found Grantaire just where he stands now, laying on the floor in nothing but a pair of jeans (that he now realizes he was not wearing when he woke; someone must have changed him and he hopes that it was Combeferre) and in a puddle of his own vomit. Bless this little child. This young man, he should say. Despite Éponine's best intents, Grantaire doesn't think Gavroche has ever been a child in the truest sense of the word. Perhaps that is why they get along so well; even at age 28 Grantaire is the child that Gavroche never got to be. As he brings over the pancakes, he loops an arm around the boy and gives him a kiss on the cheek, just loud and intense enough that his reaction - "Gross! Grantaire! Bleuugh!" - is enough to take some levity away from the situation that he know is on everyone's mind. But Grantaire knows that none of the feeling was lost.

Grantaire walks Gavroche home to the small apartment he shares with Éponine and whatever small animal he is currently trying to wheedle his sister into letting him keep as a pet this month. As of now, he believe that it is a tarantula, and she doesn't stand for bugs. Gavroche wants a dog more than anything, and Éponine blames that solely on Grantaire and his day job. But what better for someone like him than dog walker? He enjoys the time out doors, the time spent with dogs who like to play (unlike Cheese Curd, who likes to nap) and the freedom it offers him. Plus, he looks rather dashing with three dogs on each hand, if anyone was to ask him. Sometimes, if it's not a school day or he's skipping, Gavroche comes along and helps. He always wants to walk the biggest dog Grantaire has, too. But today, even being Sunday, he'll be staying home. Grantaire needs some time to himself. He rarely allows for introspection, but once Gavroche is safe in Éponine's care for the morning, and Grantaire has gathered his dogs for the first walk, he finds time to think. First about the dogs - his Sunday crowd is mostly for older or disabled people who find it hard to walk their furry companions. He try to avoid walking dogs for anybody if they're able and home. It's the weekend and a dog's owner is their world. Spend time with your pup! Grantaire is with Cheese Curd as much as possible, and even brings him out on some walks with the other dogs; he enjoys time spent with anyone other than Oscar, who is his constant companion and loves nothing more than lying on his face.

Cheese Curd brings up a completely new reason that Grantaire feels bad for letting himself get to that point the other night - he's Grantaire's rescue dog, and needs him. Not even Jehan knows him like Grantaire does. He can't just risk himself with that dog relying on him. Anyone else, he thinks, could move past something happening to him. But not Cheese Curd. He knows he needs to be careful. He does. But by the time he's far gone enough to be in danger, he's too far gone to care. Or gone enough to care too much. He can't say what happened Friday night, because anything after a dinner of pizza rolls at 9 pm is a complete blur to me. He knows that Jehan is sitting at home right now, thinking, worrying, and he knows more than anything they'll just be upset that he ate something like frozen pizza rolls for dinner. Grantaire can see them taking out the garbage, sighing at the box in the recyclables. 'There's not even real food in these,' they say, shaking their head. They mutter about him all the way down the hall. His sweet roommate. They didn't know each other at all when Jehan answered his ad looking for a roommate, and when they moved in Grantaire wasn't sure if they would get along, but one homemade dinner and a movie marathon later, he knew that his first impression had been very wrong. They became fast friends, then soulmates, and when they started sharing our bodies with each other he can't even say, except that there has never been an ounce of discomfort between them because of it. If they find a serious lover who is uncomfortable with it, they stop, and were Grantaire ever to settle down, the same would happen. But for now, they are just, in Courfeyrac's terms, 'friends with benefits.' Grantaire doesn't know how he knew. Neither of them ever told him, preferring to keep it as private as the sessions themselves, but Courfeyrac can always tell that sort of thing. He was the one who could tell when Bahorel's girlfriend had finally kissed him, when Chetta was pregnant (and when she suddenly, no longer, was), and even when Combeferre had finally decided to see if he was truly as sex-repulsed as he thought (he is). There's just something about the guy.

Too bad his powers don't extend beyond sex - Grantaire would love to have Courf look inside of him and see what was in there.

He pulls out his phone with a sigh after he drops off the last dog. It's been going off repeatedly during the walk, but his hands were rather full. When Grantaire finally takes a glance, he is both completely AND completely not surprised to see that he has exactly nine texts. Well, he would have pinned it at eight, but since when have gods behaved as human thought they would? Apollo himself was the first, in response to the picture of Gavroche with a quick "Good." Jehan asking if he's doing okay. Combeferre hoping he's alright, asking if he need anything. Then everybody else, obviously filled in rather quickly and very much without Grantaire's help. Courfeyrac with a link to what he knows is one of five YouTube videos that crack him up every time. Chetta with a picture of herself blowing him a kiss, background of books; she must be at work. Joly with links to lists helpful home remedies, Bousset telling him to just hang in there. Éponine to both Jehan and Grantaire, telling them to come over for dinner tomorrow. Bahorel's thumbs up emoji followed by a smiley face. Then, just as he goes to put his phone away, another buzz, from Marius, whom no one have not seen much of lately with this new lady that's captured every bit of his attention. She's a fine girl, too pretty and too smart for the likes of Marius, and Grantaire is sure that they would all like her very much, if those could ever pull their tongues out of each others mouths long enough to hold on a conversation. He saves each text, even the link to what turns out to be the most recent song from The Lonely Island, who I consider the finest musicians of their generation, English language or no. 

Even though Grantaire is older than the rest, save Musichetta who is exactly one month his senior and never lets him forget it, he knows that my friends are loyal and good. They come to his boxing matches, they keep him company, and they obviously take care of him. He could never hope for a better group. Which is why he sends out a group text with a simple thanks and a promise that he's doing fine.

Jehan is still in their pajamas when he gets home, with lunch picked up from their favourite Thai restaurant. He settles on the couch, them with their spicy eggplant and Grantaire loaded up on Hoi Pik Pow, with a large container of Tom Ka Hed to share between us. Both are quiet for a little, but he can feel them watching him, wondering. Finally he sighs. “Yes, Jehan?”

“...what happened?”

Grantaire looks over to their curious face, cilantro stuck to their bottom lip. Their eyes are magnified by their glasses and he cannot resist them. “Nothing happened, I promise. I was just drinking.” He takes another bite but does not take his eyes off of them; Grantaire can tell they don't believe him. “I just had a beer with dinner, that's it. And then I was watching videos on my phone, drinking, drinking. There was no reason for it.”

They sigh. “People don't black out drink alone just for no reason, Grantaire. It's not...it's not...”

“Normal? I hate to break your heart, pudding, but nothing about me is normal. But listen, you don't...understand it. When you're like me-”

“An alcoholic.”

“When you're like me,” Grantaire starts again, ignoring their words, “you don't drink for a reason. It's not for fun, it's not not calming or joy-inducing. It's numbing, at least for me. It's just what I do. It's like breathing. You don't just think 'I'm going to get blazing drunk and make a pillow out of my last meal,' you just have a drink and another drink and then you're two bottles in and you don't know who you are anymore.” He doesn't know how it is for other imbibers, but that is how it is for him, so nothing else matters in this moment. Grantaire's not here for any great movement, he' not here to represent all drunks. He just know how things are for him.

That doesn't seem to comfort Jehan, though. They push their food around, looking down. “I was wondering if it was maybe...” They flop around their spoon, and shift their eyes to the wall. They're thinking of Enjolras, thinking of Combeferre, thinking of the only thing this romantic person can summon as a reason to drink yourself into a stupor – heartbreak.

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, it's not him. I told you. There's no one reason.”

“That's scary.” There's that word again, that feeling. “If...if there wasn't a specific reason, then...what's stopping it from happening again?”

He has to whisper “nothing,” into his clams.

They nod. Then fall silent. Grantaire is glad for it. Their questions do not bother him, but the answers that he has to give them, obviously unsatisfying, do. He want to soothe them, calm them, but nothing he can offer is good enough. 

“If he loved you back...would it help?”

He chuckles and tun my eyes towards the stucco ceiling. “I don't know. Maybe a little. But it wouldn't end my...drinking. That is something even he cannot do. He can't end it. You can't. Gavroche can't. I'm the only one that can.”

And as they squeeze Gavroche's hand, he knows that they at least know that he am telling the truth, even if they don't like the answer.

\---------------------------------  
New Message from Jehan, 11:19pm  
“Can you do me a favour?"

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:21pm  
“What is it?”

New Message from Jehan, 11:21pm  
“Maybe just drop in on Grantaire tomorrow? He has some walks in the morning but nothing after that.”

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:23pm  
“Sure, I can stop by before my last class. How is he?”

New Message from Jehan, 11:23pm  
“Thank you so much. He's alright, I think. We talked a little. I called him an alcoholic and he didn't get mad at me this time.”

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:26pm  
“Well, that's progress I suppose. Don't work yourself up over him; make sure you get some sleep and take care of yourself, too.”

New Message from Jehan, 11:27pm  
“Sure, Mr. Up For 48 Hours At Least Once A Week. I'll get some sleep when you do.”

\-----  
Grantaire gets up and walk his dogs, Cheese Curd included for the first go around, then returns to the apartment for lunch. He'll have to clean up and do their laundry, but that can wait until he eats. That's his usual schedule for Mondays, when he doesn't have as many walks to do. Tuesday – Friday is busier, and then a lot of Thursday, Friday, or Saturday nights he has matches at a not exactly legal boxing ring, and that's where he makes his real money. Dog walking barely brings in anything, and Grantaire can make double what he makes in two days of that with one win. Sometimes, despite Jehan's protests, Courfeyrac and Bahorel (and sometimes Chetta) often make bets on him, and if Grantaire turns out victorious, some of their winnings go to him. Occasionally, Jehan and he struggle to make ends meet, and they like to help. Of course, nearly all of them struggle, but the goodness of friends shouldn't be measured in money. He does pay them back, in dinners, in booze, in late night adventures. Not that it matters. 

A quick lunch leaves him nothing else to do but hop into the shower. He's finally feeling better, back to himself, and he sings a little song as he lathers and rinses. It's a warm spring day, one of the first of the season, and he opens the window just enough for Oscar to squeeze into the space. He likes to watch the birds, and even though his furry body blocks any breeze from coming in Grantaire would not deny him his entertainment. He runs a towel through his hair, which could use a trim, and whistles the tune he had been singing in the shower. Cheese Curd follows him as he wanders to his room and pulls on his jeans. Before he can grab his shirt, however, there's a buzzing from the intercom. Grantaire goes to answer it, and the woman at the desk tells him he has a visitor. He is nearly bowled over when she says, “Lucien Enjolras.” And, of course, Grantaire let him up.

Enjolras' stern face never seems to belong in this hippy, organic, flowing apartment, and Grantaire marvels at that as he sits not on the couch, but perched on the clothes covered armchair. He looks Grantaire over and is offered a dashing smile in return. “Finally appreciating me for my beauty, Apollo?”

“I've told you not to call me that.” He doesn't relax against the back of the chair; he never does. Only a few times has Grantaire seen him do so, and the vision is so vulnerable that it nearly hurts him to behold. Now, however, he is as stiff as always, and Grantaire wonders how knotted and rough his back must be; to touch it must be to stroke marble. He doubts the man relaxes even in sleep. “And put a shirt on, will you?”

It is only out of respect for his dysphoria that Grantaire pulls Combeferre's hoodie back on. It was a long time ago that Jehan mentioned to him a passing statement from Enjolras that sometimes even seeing a cis male's chest could make him uncomfortable, but since he has yet to do anything surgical to his body Grantaire still keeps it in mind. “So, what brings me this great honour?”

Enjolras gives his patented Withering Glare™ and pulls his long curls up into a bun on the top of his head. “Combeferre was going to come, but he had a TA emergency so he asked me to come in his place. You're breathing, I see.”

“More clearly now that you are here,” Grantaire says, a hand pressed to his chest. Enjolras just rolls his eyes. “I live, I promise. No need for concern.” He wonders, he can't help but, if Enjolras came only because Combeferre asked, or if there was some personal curiosity involved, or even, maybe, some concern of his own. He will never ask, not if he wants to hold onto his tiny glimmer of hope.

“As I can see.” Another pause, more silence. Enjolras watches me and Grantaire can make nothing out of the emotion – or lack of – in his beautiful eyes. Grantaire can never read anything from him. He supposes living with Jehan, who is nothing if not an open book, has put his skills in reading people into disuse. Still, even the finest masters of literature would not be able to comprehend the meaning behind the words of Lucien Enjolras' skin, his hands, his hair, his lashes. He is an enigma past any mystery the word dredges up in the human mind. And mystery just happens to be Grantaire's favourite genre. He am so lost in Enjolras that Grantaire does not notice him speaking until his name comes from those perfect lips, sharp and snapped as if this is not the first time he has said it in an attempt to garner attention. Grantaire blinks drowsily, and Enjolras huffs when asked him to repeat himself, but continues. “I said, will you be alright until Jehan gets home?”

Grantaire knows that he only asks for their sake, for Combeferre's, but the words still dig their way into his very marrow, where they mix with myelocytes and normoblasts until they become all that he is. “Yes, my great caregiver, I will live thanks to the enormous warmth of your heart in paying me such a considerate call.” Grantaire looks at the clock on the wall, some hideous bird shaped thing left over from Jehan's chicken phase. “Shouldn't you be in class right now?”

“Why do you know my schedule?” he asks. “If you knew enough, you would be well aware that I have a joke of an Immigration class right now.” And then Grantaire does remember him complaining of his professor for that class and their outdated views on racial tensions between unnaturalized immigrants of colour and the white people in authority in most Western cultures. 

“If you keep skipping these classes, you'll never graduate,” he says knowingly. “You'll be like me, with nothing but my le bac behind me and no desire for anything else!”

He can see Enjolras rile, and wishes it were for him and not his dismissal of le bac. And, sure enough, he just shakes his head. “You know as well as I do that there is nothing wrong with le bac, and-”

“I know, I know, the failing education system and the unfair bias against those who not afford to go on to higher education for ones financial reasons or other obligations and the idea of academia being the only measure of intelligence is ridiculous, I have heard it all.” Grantaire waves his hand at Enjolras and sees that fire in him – he wants to debate, yet Grantaire am doing nothing but agreeing with him, and that leaves him stunned.

However, he leans his elbow on his knees. “...you really do listen to me, don't you?”

“My friend,” Grantaire says, searching in his eyes for things he cannot name and will never find, “You have no idea.”

Then the moment is past, gone to the moments of yesteryear. “Well, either way I was not attending the class, so I said I would stop in on my way to Musain. Now I must get on, I DO have things to do today.” Enjolras stands and shoulders his bag. 

He waits until Enjolras has said goodbye and is headed for the door before he scramble up. “Wait. Let me put on a some shoes, I'll walk you to the Métro. I have to go out anyways.” He huffs, but turns and waits. Grantaire moves as quickly as he can to slip his sneakers on, grab his wallet and keys. He chases Enjolras down the stairs, laughing and joking for five floors, watching him - as always, a couple steps ahead of him, and no matter how Grantaire trips and flies down the steps, he just cannot catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


	4. Ch. 3

His bags rattle on the way back home, more glass in there than he would like to admit to Jehan. Grantaire doesn't want to hide his bottles from them, but he will if only to give them hope. He repeats it over and over in his mind as he walks home. _It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them. It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them._ He had put away everything and just started laundry when his phone went off. Holding it to his ear with his shoulder, Grantaire pipes, "R's Mortuary - you stab'em, we slab'em!"

"Grantaire," Éponine sighs. Her voice is breathy and controlled, but he know she finds him funny. "Are you and Jehan still coming over dinner?"

"Of course we are. In fact, I'm making a cake for dessert the moment I'm done with laundry."

"You know you don't have to bring anything. Just that shining personality. And Gavroche was begging me to ask you to bring Cheese Curd." The affection in her voice is sweet; he wish there wasn't so much exhaustion behind it. The poor girl works her fingers to the bone to keep herself and her brother in house and home, as well as saving up to hire a private investigator - her sister and youngest brothers ran away before they were pulled from those monsters they call parents, and Grantaire knows that she is desperate to find them. She's putting off school to save up, as well as her transition - though he thinks that she is doing that more to fly safely under the watchful eye of the courts. She doesn't want to give them any reason to take Gavroche away from her, with how closely they watch her after all of the trouble. 

He promises her to bring Cheese Curd before they hang up. The laundry safely in two washers, he drudges back up the stairs. "Well, Cheese, what sort of cake should I make?" he asks. The dog just lolls his tongue out. Cheese Curd has never been much of a conversationalist. "Do you think a rum cake would be funny? I don't know if Jehan would appreciate the humor." And if Grantaire did that, they'd know he had rum. So his joke shall go untold. He starts up something chocolate instead, chocolate and simple. Grantaire likes to bake. Nothing fancy, not like the cooking shows he watches late at night, binging on Gordon Ramsey and booze. But his creations still taste fine no matter how the look on they outside. It's nearly mechanical: stir, stir, sip of the glass he hardly notices he pours from one of the bottles under his bed. It's just a part of baking for him, a part of anything. Part of everything. One glass won't kill him, won't push him over the edge. At least not WINE. He might as well be drinking Juicy Juice to wash down his aminal cwackers before going nap-nap. 

The kitchen soon smells like chocolate joy, and he can retire to the couch with a second glass of wine, and the bottle on the end table, to wait for the laundry.

When Grantaire wakes up, it's dark. The lights and TV, which were on, are off, and only Cheese Curd is draped over his lap. Once he senses that Grantaire is awake, the dog licks his hands and nuzzles that stubby face into his stomach. Grantaire gives him a gentle petting as he notices voices. Jehan's, clearly. A glance at the clock - 6:17 pm. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. But someone else is here...Joly. Extra shit. 

"I just don't know what to do," he hears Jehan say. There's some sort of sound and he realizes that the whole place smells like burning. The oven door creaks open. Oh - the cake. The cake he put in the oven nearly five hours ago. Grantaire feels like 100% pure ass, and it is not the effects of the alcohol.

"You called me,” Joly offers. He's a good friend and human being. Some may find his idiosyncrasies irritating, but Grantaire thinks he's charming. Though his advancement through medical school, leaving him in his first year, has convinced him that he has more diseases than even exist on the human spectrum, he also uses his growing knowledge to help us "as a preliminary, " he says, to proper medical care. Between his studying, his volunteering at the local free sexual health clinic, and his part time job at his campus health center, the group as a whole doesn't see him as much as they would like. And that makes Grantaire nervous. Jehan was concerned enough about him to call Joly over. He did not even use is as an excuse to see Combeferre. "That's doing something. I mean, I'm not a doctor yet, but you called the only medical help he'll accept."

Jehan sighs and Grantaire hears the clacking of Joly's cane, then the sound of him leaning it against something. He grunts a little and Jehan tells him to get off the floor. Joly makes a noncommittal whine that he only makes to brush everyone off when they worry over his leg. It never healed right after that crash, and it had always been weak before that. He tells everyone that it's more important to worry about whichever disease is 'plaguing the nation' that week. "Fine," Jehan says quietly. There's a grating, unpleasant scrubbing sound. Steel wool on metal. The cake must have exploded or boiled over, or something of the sort. Jehan makes a soft sound. "Joly. What if...that's part of the problem? I've stopped trying to convince him to get real medical help when he needs it. I know what he wants, but what if what he wants isn't what's...best for him?"

More scrubbing. "Un...unless he's in serious danger, that's a choice you can't make for him. If he's in a bad way and gets taken to the hospital, he runs the risk of detox and rehab. If he's not mentally or emotionally prepared for that, it won't help him in the long run and can even cause adverse effects. Some disagree with me, but I know that if an addict isn't ready to change, forced help is not what's best for them. Generally, of course."

An addict. The word cuts him to the bone. An addict. Grantaire the addict. That's how they think of him. Grantaire doesn't know about that. Addict, alcoholic. Those are words for someone else. For his long dead parents. But not for him. Grantaire is a boxer. A dog walker. An artist, when the mood strikes hims. He can't stand the idea; he just has a. Minor compulsion towards drinking, is all. 

For the past 10 years. It has never been as heavy as it's gotten in the past couple years, but this, whatever it is, has been going on since his late teens. He drank before that, of course, but only a beer here or there or at grantedly frequent parties and visits to bars.

" - self medicating," Joly finishes saying, snapping Grantaire out of his reverie. "It's common amongst addicts, they have an undiagnosed or unmedicated mental illness - depression, PTSD, what have you - and what they're suffering through drives them to find an escape. Eventually the drugs or the booze stops being an escape and becomes a full force addiction, something they cant and don't want to live without." Grantaire curses Joly's mental health degree as well as his medical training. He, of all people, thinks anyone else could have a mental problem? The man who had a cough for one day and thought he has going to die of tuberculosis might not be the best person to give out unwarranted diagnoses. For a moment, Grantaire thinks that he's wasting his time in medical school since he obviously has no clue what he's talking about and just goes around making vast assumptions. But then the guilt sets in. He's only thinking these things out of hurt. Grantaire is not some experiment to him; Joly is his friend, on of his best friends. He just worries. Didn't he come over here, after all?

"I just wish I knew if I was helping. He needs help. Deserves it." They sound stressed, unbearably so. And when they start to cry, Grantaire wishes that he was brave enough to just walk away from them all. It's the best thing he could do for everybody. And Jehan, sweet Jehan, wouldn't have to sit on the kitchen floor crying over him. They wouldn't feel like they had to come home to check on him, feel like they couldn't go out on their own without having to bring Grantaire or send someone to babysit him. They could concentrate on their poetry, on their window boxes, on getting clueless Combeferre to look at them the way they deserve to be looked at.

"I just worry about him s-so much.."

Grantaire can't help myself. It doesn't matter if they find out he was eavesdropping; he ignores his protesting head and body to push himself off of the couch. He brushes into the kitchen and they both look up at him in surprise. Before either can open their mouth, Grantaire drops down next to Jehan, acrid scent from the open oven burning his nostrils, and brings them close to his chest. Grantaire wraps them in his arms and look over to Joly. His eyes are sad too, under eyebrows bushy enough to give Grantaire'ss a run for their money. He apologizes to both of them, and Joly just shakes his head. "It's okay, Grantaire."

He knows it's not, but Grantaire doesn't fight him. Jehan looks up at me, hair a mess and glasses askew. "I should be the one comforting y-you..." 

"Don't worry about that, Jehan. Just don't. Why don't you two sit up at the table? I'll finish this." The inside of the oven is a chocolaty mess. What exactly happened in there? Jehan tries to fight him on it, but Joly catches their eye and shakes his head again. Jehan sighs but stands up, and helps Joly back to his feet.

Jehan's eyes are red, but the tears seem to be gone. It occurs to Grantaire that maybe they're pretending to be strong for his benefit, and that makes him want to slam his head in the oven door. "I'll order in some food, then," they say over the sound of the rushing water. Joly is washing his hands for the first time. He'll was them twice more before sitting down again, he always does. "Joly, stay for dinner."

He does, of course he does, that great man. They all sit in the living room to eat, Grantaire's phone in his lap after texting an apology to Éponine and Gavroche. Jehan said that he already had called them and made excuses, but they're no idiots. Talk turns their meeting tomorrow, what started as a few social justice minded friends meeting at a coffee shop once in a while and turned into a sociopolitical activism group that was granted use of a back room in the coffee shop one night a week for their meetings. They stage protests, do charity work, write petitions and letters to local and national government, and any other good deeds they conjure up. On one wall is a large whiteboard with their name scrawled across the top - Les Amis, followed by #LibertéÉgalitéFraternité, which is even on the t-shirts Courfeyrac had printed up. Enjolras insists they wear them to events, and as their elected leader, everyone does as he says. The shirt is really just the icing on the cake of Why Grantaire Doesn't Go. He attend meetings, yes, but he has no belief in this change they all seem to fight for. This world's a shithole and a few young people with a hashtag aren't going to change that. But he does believe in their belief, in their passion. He believes in Enjolras. Grantaire believes in him with so much heart that some of it must be someone else's. He is a true leader and Grantaire finds so much joy in watching him work. And, he must admit, in antagonizing him. Grantaire loves to argue, to debate, and he gets a sense that Enjolras does too. Plus, he was friends with Courfeyrac first and he was a founding member, then when Jehan met them through me, they joined up, and soon enough they all became Grantaire's friends. It is nice just to be with them, even if he just sits in the corner and sketches them as they plot and plan and work towards a better tomorrow. They are younger than him, but never by much, and as has been said before, he's never been very mature. They are good people.

"Enjolras came to visit today," he says. They both turn, share a look, and he points his fork at them. "Enough of that. He just came to check up on me, thanks to someone asking Combeferre to do so.”

“Don't give me that.” Jehan looks haughty, and he wishes Combeferre was here to see them. Indignation makes them glow, makes them look even more beautiful. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, fully intending on giving them that. He has to ween these people off of babysitting him. “I walked him to the train before he left an everything.” He can see the unasked question in Jehan's eyes. _Is that why you were drinking?_ They still don't believe him. Enjolras is not why Grantaire drinks; after all, he drank beforehand, didn't he? Yes, sometimes his cold treatment hurts, but Grantaire was going to drink with or without him. Was that admitting something? No. It was just the truth.

Joly sighs. “He's been up since 4, you know. I was up early too and saw him on his way to school. He said that he couldn't sleep. I hope he's not falling ill.” His face spoke otherwise. For such a hypochondriac, Joly loves when there's someone sick to take care of. The week when both Chetta AND Bousset had the flu was probably the best time of his life – both his loved ones needing his care. Chetta vowed to never get sick again after that. 

“Just like Apollo – up to see the sunrise and drag it across the sky.” He voice is too dreamy for his liking, but he chalks it up to the roughness of the day. But he is Apollo, Grantaire's very sun. Even Enjolras' disdain brightens his very world - especially when he can see that Enjolras is fighting back laughter or a smile. “You know that he never sleeps anyways, Joly.”

He smiles, round cheeks crinkling near his eyes. “No, he doesn't. You are very right about that.” It is well known that Enjolras is late to bed, early to rise. Unless he is at the podium, Enjolras always looks exhausted. Grantaire remembers one time, when he arrived at the coffee shop miraculously early. Enjolras was there too, but passed out over a table, laying over his closed laptop and a messy stack of fliers. He wanted to say that he did NOT take a picture of Enjolras, that he was a decent man and woke him up, but of all the things Grantaire is, a liar is not (usually) one of them. So hidden away in the dark corners of his phone, the memory of Enjolras' face, tense even in sleep, remains hidden away for whenever he wants to look at it and relive that day. Which Grantaire does, very very often. One time, when Enjolras was away for a week, he even set it as his background – at least, until Courfeyrac caught sight of his phone and teased him mercilessly for it.

Jehan reminds him us that a lot of their friends have trouble going to sleep when they should, and all three of them laugh. It's true – in general, they are a pretty sleepy bunch. None so bad as Enjolras though, except for Combeferre. That man would be up so long that he forget his own name. Bahorel had carried his limp and sleeping body home more than once. And, true to form, with Joly there, we talk far too long, he is there far too late. But even though it is past three in the morning when he leaves, it is with a smile on his face. Theirs as well.

_______

Wednesdays have been Les Amis night since the thing started up. Members have been known to plan classes and work shifts to make sure that they were free on Wednesday nights for this nonsense. Grantaire usually just sits in the back with a sketchbook or my phone, waiting for the end of the meeting so he can truly speak to his friends. Although, Grantaire could honestly sit and listen to Enjolras speak for hours even with nothing to do. And tonight he feels so dazed, so tired from the dramatics of the week, that he doesn't even interrupt. He just sits and listens.

At the end of the meeting, Feuilly is the one to interrupt him. Grantaire expected to see zir since ze hadn't texted him. Ze doesn't have a phone; ze can't afford it. Feuilly is one month free from homelessness, having finally succeeded in zir goal of pulling zirself up by zir bootstraps. Ze has been homeless since 11 - it's miraculous that ze ever made it to age 23. We all tried to help zir, throughout the years, but ze was too proud - ze felt ashamed, Grantaire truly believes. He can understand being too ashamed to accept help, and he knows that the offers meant more to zir than the actual help. Ze would take food, let us buy zir dinner as much as possible, or even accept offers of clothes, blankets, or a place to stay on the coldest of deep Paris winter nights, but ze wouldn't accept cash. Ze worked – as a street artist for tourists, as a part time anything for rich people looking to pay under the table, and, they all fear, as a part time ANYTHING for rich people looking to have a good time - and saved. Ze just moved out of zir car into a sad little apartment, but ze is happy with that. If ze is happy, then it's all they can do to be happy for zir too.

"Hey, hot stuff," ze says, plopping into the chair across from him. "Whatchya daydreaming about?"

"Only your eyes." Feuilly and Grantaire love to flirt with each other; it keeps them practiced. Not that a grade A Stud such as Grantaire needs practice, but it's nice to keep in shape. Others will play with him, but only Feuilly plays to kill. And Courfeyrac, he supposes, but lately Courf seems distracted and Grantaire can't quite figure out with what. He would think a woman, but she would have to be especially sunning to throw him off so completely. Not that he minds being left with Feuilly. Ze is a wonderful friend. Grantaire knows that he says that of all of them, but that is only because it is an irrevocable truth. 

“How have I not climbed right into your bed, with lines like that?” Ze gives a wink, and he knows that ze is thinking, as Grantaire is, of the night ze did spend with him, during a miserable blizzard, and all they did was sit under the blankets, playing Battleship. Ze completely and utterly kicked his ass.

“Don't encourage him,” says a beloved voice, as Enjolras comes to them in all the glory his 5'4” body can muster – which is more glory than a man twice his size could hope for. Grantaire teases him that what he lacks in height, he makes up for in valor. And he thinks that Enjolras likes that. Right now, he is all business. A pile of fliers, something that he knows Feuilly zirself did, for they are things of beauty, falls on the table between them with an almost satisfying thump. Then an envelope into Feuilly's lap. “Thank you for these, Feuilly, they're gorgeous. Perhaps you could bring them around to the stores in your neighborhood?”

It stings that Feuilly will forever be more valuable to Enjolras than Grantaire. Just because ze is from the very streets that Enjolras is trying to save, because ze is connected with the downtrodden, ze IS the downtrodden. He is jealous of a person barely past being homeless, jealous of a struggle no one should envy, all because he wishes, for once, to see Enjolras' gaze soften instead of sharpen when it lands on him. That line of thought makes Grantaire feel bitter and rotten – he knows that Enjolras is not using zir and zir position, but. Something out of zir control makes them seem more in Enjolras' eyes. Something he cannot attain. Grantaire has no worth in his eyes, he knows that.

But that does not mean that he will not fight for it. “Let me take some, Apollo dear, don't pile so much on Feuilly when you have a loyal courier right in front of you. I'll take some and find places for them on my walks.”

Grantaire can tell that Enjolras has no faith in him, but he takes half of the papers anyways. He pass plenty of places in his walks where he could hang these. They are a call to arms, as always, this time for clothing drive. That is something Grantaire can support, better than anything political. This is just helping people. “Don't worry that handsome face of yours – each flier I take shall be pinned up with care. I am not here to sabotage, just to serve.”

“You are here to mock,” he says.

“I am here to kowtow.”

Can he really not feel the fire between us, or does he choose to ignore it? His face does not change. “I better not see a single one in the waste basket,” he says. Grantaire place my hand on the top of my stack of papers; as if in a dream, in slow motion, his moves to fall on mine. A palm sandwiched between parchment and ivory. His skin is soft, softer than Grantaire assumes he likes, and warm, and his entire body feels as if he's been electrocuted in the most beautiful way possible.

“Enjolras, don't torment him, he'll do it.” Ah, Feuilly! A saviour! His true angel in copper hair and golden eyes, beauty and honor all wrapped up into a statue representing all the grace of humanity! Grantaire could kiss zir! Yet zir words do not keep his hand, that gently arching palm, those shapely fingers, almond nails, on his. The air, though a warm summer breeze, is now bitterly cold where Enjolras' skin leaves his. Can frostbite settle in so quickly, just from the loss of contact? He moves on, he walks away.

Feuilly's hand replaces his. “Why don't you come to get dinner with me?” ze offers, and he know that it's out of pity, and a desire to keep him from drinking. But pity is not malice, and Grantaire needs to remember that. It's a hard lesson to learn.

A laugh rolls across the room, and he sees Jehan isolated in a corner with Combeferre. They reach up, cup his arm, and Combeferre looks down bashfully. Grantaire's glance moves back to Feuilly. “I could do that. And I'll take a look at that wobbly kitchen table while I'm at it.” And maybe, Jehan could use his night off of babysitting detail to have some fun.


	5. Ch. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how boxing works.

The entire building smells like sweat and blood, and the bout hasn't even started yet. This abandoned warehouse has absorbed fight after fight every weekend for the past twenty years, and the smell is as much a part of it as steel or concrete. It's been a long time since Grantaire has had a Thursday night bout, and he is ready for it. Courfeyrac sits close, with their knees touching as he wraps Grantaire's hand up, winding inch after inch of off-white fabric about his knuckles and palm. "He's a new guy, big and tough, but a little slow on the uptake. Seems to have his own cheering session already. His first fight was last week, he won two of his three bouts. But you're an old favourite so a lot of the bets are resting on you. Plus." A gleam sparkles in his eyes, his lips curl in mischief. “There's something out there that I really think will give you an edge."

Courfeyrac will say no more, only slip the glove on and tighten it. "Got your mouth guard? Good." He pushes Grantaire out to the roar of the crowd - a sizable one, for a Thursday night fight - and he raises a fist in greeting before climbing up to the platform, barely raised, linoleum over old wooden pallets and roped in by bungee cords. It's a comfortable place for him, home from his corner. Grantaire still doesn't know what Courfeyrac was talking about, that will give him an edge. Grantaire looks, barely turning his head, but he is distracted when a hulking shadow of a man climbs into the ring opposite him. His head is shorn, his face scarred and tattooed, and he is taller than even Grantaire. A slim person climbs in after him, long black curls tied at the nape of their neck, eyes dangerous, face sharp. They mumble something as they tighten his gloves. 

“That's Gueulemer,” comes Courfeyrac's voice. “He's slow. Word has it he favours his right foot.” Grantaire nods, unable to speak through his mouth guard. “Good luck, buddy.”

The announcer steps forward and holds an old bullhorn to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice echoes out. The crowd shouts and stamps their feet, and from behind Grantaire's back, he hears Chetta's powerful voice. His own small cheering section. “Welcome to our bout! Tonight, for your enjoyment, we have two mountains colliding! Eight rounds of pure heavyweight action! To my right, we have a fan favourite here. Weighing at 125 kilograms – Hercule Grantaire!” Not everyone uses their real names here. Grantaire, with nothing to lose, sees no reason to hide. He smashes his gloves together, then raises his fists in the air, rotating on the spot to see the crowd.

He comes to a stop when, behind his usual crowd – Bossuet, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Joly, Chetta, and Éponine – is joined not only by Jehan, who usually can't stand to see the “pointless violence” but, in the second row, a serious face framed by golden curls. The hands attached to that face, those curls, are not clapping, not cheering as the others are, but there that beauty is. Those intense eyes look into Grantaire's, and the entire world pauses. He came. Enjolras came to see him fight.

“Gueulemer!” The announcer finishes, and Grantaire realizes that the introductions have gone on without him. He whips around to tap gloves with this giant, and feels his entire body fill with powerful fire. Courf is right – Enjolras watching him will give him the powerful boost he needs. Grantaire can win this. 

They danced around each other a bit, just trying to get a feel for how the other moves. Gueulemer is covered in tattoos, thick legged, smaller on the top. Grantaire will have to move quickly to knock the man off balance. But he is quick, quicker than his size and plodding steps would suggest. He's always been a heavy boy, with a stomach and love handles, thick wrists, wide legs and arms. He loves being a heavyweight. Grantaire takes one step forward, a testing swing towards Gueulemer's face, and his opponent moves – yes, the man does, he favours his right, Grantaire can see it in the way he dodges. He moves again, weaving, ready to force him into making the next move. They've completed one circle of the ring before Gueulemer does, one quick jab that makes no contact. Grantaire hears his friends cheer for him, and even knowing that Enjolras' voice is not among them can not damper his spirits. Cheering or not, he is here.

That drives Grantaire to land his first hit, a right hook to the side of Gueulemer's head. He does not spin but he stumbles, back against his ropes. The slim person has a cigarette – in a holder, what in all hell? - and they pulls it out of their mouth to give a calm order. 'Get up, you oaf.”

And he does, Gueulemer pulls himself back to his feet. The first hit has awoken the competition in him. They collide, trying to find the delicate balance of defend and attack, arms meeting, fists meeting, chests meeting. He gets in a firm punch to Grantaire's gut. This time is his turn to stumble back, pain radiating from the point of contact just to the right of his sun tattoo, done prison-style and looking for all the world like something a child would draw in the corner of their paper. All of Grantaire's opponents do that; they all go for the sun. But he knows pain, he's been dealt worse. They move back into the swing of things, landing some blows and missing some each.

Courf brings him some water during the first break, and Grantaire more splashes it on his face than drinks it. He can feel Jehan fluttering around behind Courf like a nervous butterfly, but his eyes are for Gueulemer, sitting in his corner with the slim person, guzzling water. Good – over hydration can be dangerous. You don't want anything sloshing around too much in your stomach during a bout. Grantaire has seen a few good fighters get knocked down from vomiting up water and bile. 

Gueulemer seems to be fine back in the ring for the second round. They are equally matched, moving through rounds two and three with a knock down each. Neither of them have come lose to knocking the other out quite yet, or getting on the ropes, and Grantaire's fire burns ever brighter. He can feel Enjolras watching him, watching his every move. 

Enjolras will see Grantaire win; he guarantees it. He will not fall in Enjolras' presence.

Which makes it even more humiliating when Gueulemer's fist connects with his temple. Grantaire feels the wetness immediately, and the blood trickling down his face, from how that glove pushed so roughly against him. The blood, felt yet unseen, incites him, and Grantaire returns the punch with a hit square in his chest. He's bruised there already, they're both bruised, and only halfway through. Four rounds to go after this one.

Unless Grantaire can get him on the ground. Win by a KO. And he can do it, he knows it. Things heat up in the fifth round, and Grantaire lets that fire take over his entire being. The crowd is as riled as possible, and he can hear Éponine shouting out words that she could cuff Gavroche for. Grantaire chuckles, low, chin brushing his chest.

“What's so funny?” Gueulemer growls through his mouth guard.

Grantaire shakes his head and rush at Gueulemer again. He can feel his legs tiring, his arms, but he will not back down. And he thinks his stubbornness is making Gueulemer angry, his temper boiling with each attack Grantaire make, with the each passing second that Grantaire doesn't fall back, that he doesn't silently admit his opponent's superiority.

That is because Gueulemer has no superiority, Grantaire thinks, circling him before the next impact. Grantaire is a savage beast, and Gueulemer is his prey.

Then a well aimed fist hammers into his face, finding a brief home in the junction between cheek and eye and nose. Grantaire does spin, right to the ground, wondering what cracked, hearing his elbows hit the ground before he feel its, his forearms following, his knees. He has to take a short brief and in that moment, the referee is down next to him, counting. Counting seconds, in one-two-three-four-

“Grantaire, you lazy ass, get up!” 

With a groan, Grantaire raises his head. In his swimming vision, the crowd swirls black. Except for a splash of red, a dash of yellow. The blur is shouting at him, hovering above the crowd. No, standing, he is standing on his chair and his mouth is open, as it so often is. Enjolras, darling beloved. “Get up and teach in a lesson!”

His stern voice, excited by Grantaire, something HE is doing, driven to passion not by ideals but by an man with no ideals. It pulls him up, gives him all he need. It is not Grantaire pulling himself to his feet on the count of nine, but Enjolras there, yanking him up by a tangle of vocal chords and heart strings. Grantaire raises his fist in his direction then dive for Gueulemer. Round five is close to an end; he will not see the end of round six.

The minute's break has Grantaire surrounded, Courfeyrac washing blood from his face, Jehan worrying loudly, wondering if the referee wouldn't allow a moment more for rest. He laughs and pat their shoulder with his glove. “Do you think so little of me, my dear?”

"No, but...look at you. Oh, this is why I don't come, I can't handle seeing you hurt.” They hand him a new bottle of water and this time he does drink, large gulps. It does not matter. This round will be the last. He thanks them both before pushing him back to his feet at the ref's signal. 

Grantaire feels terrible physically, but Gueulemer looks just about as bad as he feels. And he knows that Gueulemer does not feel the joy that he does, does not have pure ecstasy fueling him. Enjolras, now quiet, now sitting, is still watching intently. Grantaire moves into the round like lightning, striking and dodging as if he were born anew. Which he was. There is a light in Grantaire that can not be extinguished with neither fist nor strike, and Gueulemer's growing frustration with his bullheaded perseverance is to Grantaire's benefit. The angrier Gueulemer is, the easier it is for him to lose his footing. Concentrating on his fury distracts him from Grantaire's slighter movements, and he knows that he can gain the lead.

Grantaire's wound, barely closed, is open once more; he feels the blood trickling back down his face, see it smear with his glove as another punch connects. That punch means nothing to Grantaire, not in the state he's in. Grantaire is a blaze, he is a bulldozer, he is nothing like this man has ever seen before.

And he is going to make sure that Gueulemer knows it.

He has been underestimating Grantaire, despite their nearly equal skills. Gueulemer has no clue what runs through Grantaire's veins, has no clue how invigorating the driving force behind his hits is. He does not expect to learn what his punching bag would feel if it could, but nothing can stop Grantaire. All of his hits are good, connections, defense up, feet steady. He nearly loses myself in the movements, and is surprised when he takes another swing that does not connect. Grantaire swirls around, seeking out his opponent. But he is not there.

Only the referee's shouts draw him back into reality. Grantaire turns his face back to him, to Gueulemer who is on the linoleum on his side. He tries to get up, shaking arms pushing. Grantaire can see a magnificent bruise blossoming over his nose. “Eight. Nine. Ten!”

The crowd explodes and Grantaire can hardly hear the announcer calling him out as victor. Someone pushes through the crowd, and suddenly Courfeyrac is there, raising his fist up in the air. The ring fills up, with Gueulemer's crowd, with Grantaire's. The kisses on each cheek from Éponine and Chetta do not go unnoticed, the congratulatory punch on the arm from Bahorel, the fussing over his forehead from Joly. But it all happens as if in a daze. An envelope of winnings is held out to him, and he could nearly kiss the ref. But, since he can't, Courf takes the envelope, passes it to Jehan. “You really killed him!”

Everyone's laughing and shouting, but Grantaire does let them get him out of the ring. They have some time to wait, while they figure out the winnings of all the bets, and Joly as usual is using it to check him over. Jehan struggles with one of his gloves, and he can see the little smile on their face – no matter their dislike of his sport, they're proud of him. And that makes Grantaire proud of himself. Joly declares him sound, if not a little bloody, and sets upon cleaning him up.

“Joly, let me,” comes a voice, one Grantaire can hardly believe. The people around him seem to dissipate as Enjolras comes forward. He takes the wet washcloth from Joly and bends to wipe some of the blood from Grantaire's face. “When I saw him, you know, I assumed that you didn't have a chance in hell.”

Grantaire chuckles, pulling at the string of his remaining glove with his free hand. “That's because you've never come to see me box before. Do I dance like a leaf in the breeze or what?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but does not stop his mission. The blood has trailed down, over Grantaire's cheek and neck, sliding down his collarbone, and Enjolras is meticulous. “Where has that passion been hiding, Grantaire?” he asks, and it is so quiet that Grantaire can't figure out if he is asking HIM, or himself. 

“Takes the worst to bring it out in me,” Grantaire jokes. Enjolras jumps a little, and Grantaire understand that he hadn't been asking him at all. Enjolras is close, so close, and Grantaire wants nothing more than to kiss him. He imagines Enjolras reciprocating, testing, not warm, but enough that he calls tomorrow and they have a long talk leading up to dinner. But he knows that he can't, he shouldn't mar such a good night with a rejection. Let's save that for one of his many nights where he would rather be dead. Then the fresh pain will fade into the rest of it.

But no, tonight is not for thoughts like that. It is a good night, and that is sealed when Enjolras hides something that could be a small laugh. Grantaire feels his fingers brush against him, against bare skin, bordering the washcloth that winds its way down his neck, down his chest. It's heaven and torture, and Grantaire could cry when that touch was retracted. The blood came off so quickly, and he feels very clean despite the sweat. “Well,” Enjolras says, standing up straight. “It was nice to see you dedicated to something other than interrupting my meetings.”

“Don't worry, Apollo. By next Wednesday I shall be all healed up and ready to spread my good word.”

“Hopefully not over mine.” His voice is serious, but there is a smile on his face, and Grantaire feels as if he has won the bout all over again.

The envelope is thicker by the time Jehan and Grantaire get home. Most of it will go into the bank tomorrow, but he does take out a decent chunk. He wants to find a present for Jehan, just as a thank you for all they do. Surely there's something they want that they wouldn't buy for themself; he'll have to do some research and figure out what would please them the most. Grantaire can't help but wonder how much Combeferre goes for?

\----  
The next morning, Grantaire is sore. It is nothing that he is not used to, from the boxing and from his and Jehan's celebrations after. Despite their vehement disapproval of such a violent night, it seemed to draw up something animalistic in them. It always does. They get up together and get breakfast, and Grantaire doesn't realize until he drops them off at work that it's been nearly a week since Gavroche found him. Tomorrow morning would be it. 

Grantaire shakes it off, takes his dogs for their walks, apologizes to anyone that he has missed so far about his absence the previous Friday. He claims an illness and supposes that it's not a lie; there is something inherently wrong with him. It is not his urge to drink. Whatever this is has been with him for a long, long time. Grantaire has felt broken for as long as he can remember. His childhood is nothing more than a blur to him, of dark apartments, angry landlords, and parents who often could not remember his name. He hardly remembers his schooling – it made no lasting impression on him and Grantaire made no lasting impression on while he was there. He had no friends, despite being the class clown, and he was consistently in trouble. School was just so boring. Grantaire only truly enjoyed art and gym. The moment he could, he was out of there. He could have left when he was sixteen, yes, but the idea of a change was scary. Grantaire was ready to leave his parents to their drugs, to their closed doors, to their friends coming over that he barely remembered.

From then on, he was on his own. Grantaire found a job stocking a grocery store a year before graduating; he had saved up enough money for one month's rent on a studio apartment not too different from Feuilly's, and lived month to month. Soon enough he found the boxing, and took up dog-walking on the side. He was fired from the grocery when he came in drunk too many times, or didn't come in at all. But by then he had Jehan, and they assured him that between his two jobs and their full-time employment, they could make things work. And they have, mostly. 

Their suffering has nothing to do the rent. Grantaire's suffering has become their shared suffering; he would give anything to be strong enough to overcome whatever is wrong with him. Or at least strong enough to protect Jehan from it.

“Grantaire! Grantaire!” As he comes up to his apartment at the end of the day, holding a bag from some kitschy little flea market, Grantaire hears shouts that can only belong to one person. Gavroche runs up to him, bouncing on little feet. “Éponine says you won! She said you really kicked that guy's ass!”

“I did, I did!” Grantaire drives his fist against Gavroche's hair, not bothering telling him not to swear. He never does. “He never saw I coming! And he was huge, too!”

“That's what Éponine said!” Gavroche ruffles his hair back up the way he had it as they head into the building and up the stairs. “Tell me all about it!” Grantaire recount the fight for him on their way up the stairs, and into the apartment. He leaves out the part about how Enjolras made him feel, but does tell Gavroche he was there and interested. Gavroche is just about as shocked as Grantaire is that he even came; he shall have to tell dear Apollo that he is predictable even to someone whose voice hasn't dropped yet. 

Grantaire pops some frozen pizza in the tiny oven for them – two of them, so even after they have their fill there will be plenty of left overs for both Jehan and for Gavroche to bring home to Éponine, and they settle on the couch. Well, he settles on the floor with Cheese Curd, who is thrilled to have someone around for extra belly rubs. Grantaire takes his bag up and pull out the satiny robe he found today. It's a hideous yellow thing with green frogs sewn into it, billowing sleeves, and a tie around the waist.

“I uh. Hope that ain't for you, R. Because champ or not, I don't think 'frogs' is your colour.” Grantaire lowers the robe and sees Gavroche looking at it, making the same face Éponine makes when she comes over and he's forgotten to pick his dirty underwear up off the bathroom floor.

He always makes Grantaire laugh. “It's a gift for Jehan. Do you think they'll like it?” He turns it around so Gavroche can see it better.

“It's ugly as ass,” Gavroche says, then makes sure Grantaire knows how deep his disgust goes by sticking his tongue, colourful from some sort of candy, out between his lips.

“So, yes then?”

He rolls his eyes, but does not argue. He knows he can't. Grantaire turns the TV on while he plays with Cheese Curd. He doesn't expect to hear Gavroche say anything, so it takes Grantaire a moment to register when he pipes up. “You aren't joking when you say you love Enjolras, are you?”

“What?”

“Enjolras. You DO love him.” Gavroche throws Cheese's ball and he races after it; the sound of his nails skidding over the kitchen floor can be heard through the whole apartment.

Grantaire wonders what he's getting it. With a transgender sister and having been raised amongst the biggest group of queers anyone has ever met, surely he can't be upset about it. But Grantaire is still careful when he answer with a, “Yes, very much.”

Matter-of-factly, he looks Grantaire dead in the eye. “That's why you won, then. You were showing off.”

“I...I was not!” he says, incredulous even thought that's exactly what happened.

“Yeah right. Éponine and Chetta were on the phone for a LONG time about the two of you last night.” He adopts the breathy voice his sister talks in. “You SAW him, how the moment Enjolras started yelling, he turned into some sort of machine!”

His impression, which is spot on, makes Grantaire laugh. “Alright, maybe you caught me! But I've seen you popping wheelies on your bike for the girls at school when I come get you! You do the same thing.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't fight about it. “Well, if he sees you box like THAT, he'll be putty in your hands in no time!” Where did he learn to talk like that? He's spending too much time with Courf. “Just promise me when you start going out that you're not gonna get all gross and sappy and make out on tables, alright?”

Grantaire leans forward, elbows on his knees. “No promises, kiddo.”


	6. Ch. 5

When Grantaire comes home Saturday, it's dark. He and Courf had been at the gym, training . There isn’t another bout for a week, but it's been awhile since he’s really put an effort into training. Grantaire is lucky that Courf has a membership, because without that blessed fool sneaking him in, Grantaire would have to go back to hanging up his old tattered punching bag in his bedroom doorway. And Jehan would never allow him to do that; it would ruin their aesthetic.

Grantaire prefers the time out anyways, even if by the time he approaches the doorway to his floor, he is exhausted. The trip all the way to the other side of the floor seems endless and he yawns as he silently shuffles around two corners. Movement catches his eye, however, at the end of the hallway, near his door. He looks up, and by the dingy light sees a blur of limbs, a mess of hair and lips as the couple kisses. The motions are not soft; they're needy, desperate, new. It isn't until they pull apart that Grantaire realizes who they are. Even though it is perfectly clear. With their sizes, their colouring, there is no one else it could be. Jehan looks embarrassed and buries their face, such a familiar action, into Combeferre's chest. Grantaire can feel their joy from here, and some of it blossoms within his chest.

Combeferre holds them around the waist, kissing their neck, as Jehan fumbles with the keys. They disappear into the apartment with a few laughs, and once the door shuts Grantaire is left alone in the hallway. It's a good alone, though, sprung from the happiness of one of his most precious people. He just hopes that they’re both sober, or sober enough not to regret this in the morning. If Combeferre hurts them, even accidentally, he’ll have a heavyweight champ to answer to. And if they get together? Well, friend or not, Combeferre’s getting The Talk. Jehan is Grantaire’s darling and if he must be big brother, then he shall fill the role with pride.

His lips seem to whistle of their own accord as he moves down the street, happy just to know that Jehan is happy. Still, he would like the chance to find a place a sit. It’s not like he’s never done this before - it’s just been a while. It’s nearing ten o' clock, and most of the places that are open are bars. He could get in trouble for that. Of course, no one would believe Grantaire if he were to say that it wouldn't pose a problem - he prefers to do his drinking in the privacy of his own apartment. Not to say that he wouldn’t GET something - not only can you get fruity drinks like the kind he never cares to make at home, but it’s weird to sit in a bar and NOT drink - but he wouldn’t run the risk everyone seems to worry over so much.

There’s a cafe he finds, open 24 hours. It's a warm place, with plush seating and a nice atmosphere. Grantaire orders a coffee and a panini, then settles into a chair near the window. Thankfully his phone charger is in his big, messy messenger bag, along with his sketchbook. Grantaire can be here comfortably for hours. Once his food is in front of him (courtesy of a cute red-head who must be too tired to respond to his wink) Grantaire clamps his headphones over his ears and finds something to watch while he eats. Half an hour later his food is gone, his coffee near gone, and he’s all but molded himself into the marshmallow-like chair.

Grantaire’s attention drifts from his screen out the window. It's raining, barely, just enough to dot his view with small splotches that steal the colours of car and streetlights. There are enough people out for such a busy section of the city, but with the time, they will all fade into bars or concerts or back home soon. This particular cafe is bristling right now, and he considers himself lucky that he found such a prime seat. He hears the steady hum of people under the music in his ears, and it's pleasant if not comforting. Grantaire finds himself not thinking about anything, floating in the abyss of music, unfocused eyes, and a subtly changing landscape. How long he stays that way, cooled remains of his coffee clutched in his hands, eyes trained on nothing but full to the brim with sweeps and dips of colour, he cannot say. Grantaire is only drawn out of my his reverie by the ending of the playlist he was on, the silence in his ear more an alarm than anything he rolls out of bed to smack into submission in the morning.

He starts up another playlist and pulls out his sketchbook. Some people-watch; Grantaire people-draws. A face here, a hairstyle there. Sometimes a person in particular grabs him, sometimes not. On this night he just browses, as one does through books on a shelf or the sad Netflix collection of horror movies. A person with an interesting nose leaves their impact on his paper, someone with hair down past their knees. Ears from someone, a jaw from another – they all mold together into one under Grantaire’s hand, flesh turning murky as he blends and fades. Somewhere in his bag is at least one tortillon, gifted from any number of people. He doesn't like the tool – his fingers, though larger, are easier to use, more dexterous. And, anyways, he doesn't like his work to look too clean. Clean lines are not Grantaire, they make any piece he does look disingenuous, dishonest.

The crowd thins as he hunches over his work, done with inspiration for the time being. Now Grantaire concentrates on bringing out the details. Snap buttons on a coat, the shadow under, the highlight above. The coat itself, thin for the warm night, synthetics and elastic to keep the rain away. Skinny jeans, textured rough and worn, a hole in the knee. Tall heels, precarious for a wet street. Hair spilling out, curling and twisting. Catch the highlights the lowlights, the depth of each flounce. Folds, folds, folds, of fabric, of hair, of flesh.

When Grantaire’s hand, at last, cramps does he set his pencil down. He rubs at an eye and glances at the time. Just after midnight. That would explain the emptying cafe. Assuming that, with everyone seated and no one in line, his seat would be safe, he grabs my phone and heads into the bathroom. Grantaire doesn't look into the mirror as he washes his hands, past scowling at a message scrawled over the surface in dry-erase marker. _No one ever injured their eyes looking on the bright side of things._ He rolls his eyes – Grantaire would add “retina damage can be long lasting” but he doesn't have a dry erase marker. The message bothers him so much that he leaves without drying his hands; he resorts to wiping them dry on his jeans.

When he looks up from my hands, outside the bathroom, Grantaire sees a section of the cafe that is around a little corner – booths back here, darker without the glow of the streetlights. There only seems to be one window, and it must open to an alley because it's covered with a few sheer curtains. There only seems to be one person back here, in front of a laptop that is open but black and dead. This person is not paying attention anyways. In fact, judging by the rhythmic way their shoulders rise and fall, this person is completely asleep. Their hoodie is a dark, warm colour, he finds it hard to tell which in the gloom, and blonde curls poke out from where the hood is cinched lightly around their face. Someone comes up, mutters 'excuse me, ' and Grantaire realizes that he’s just loitering outside of the bathroom door like some deviant. He moves off to the side, and the light as they open the door illuminates the sleeper. Their laptop seems to be full of stickers, all supporting different causes. Very familiar causes.

Could he be that stupid? The door closes, and the light fades from that small frame, that laptop, and that hoodie that, in the light, was undeniably red. Enjolras. Of all the cafes in Paris, he is asleep in the back of the very one Grantaire has been inhabiting this entire night. He moves over to the sleeping man, and cannot believe he did not recognize that form. Even as heavy footsteps come closer, he does not stir. “You moron,” Grantaire murmurs, shutting his laptop. He makes no movement, no fluttering of his lids or unintelligible muttering from those lips, his curls stuck to them and twisting past his chin. “This isn't safe.”

Grantaire goes back to his table and gathers his remaining things. He tells the bored wait staff that he’s moving tables before turning that corner and sliding into the booth Enjolras barely occupies. Enjolras doesn't move as Grantaire settles in across from him, or puts his headphones in, plugs his charger into the wall, or props his phone up on the table. He's a fool – falling asleep in public, even in an open business, is dangerous, and Grantaire would feel badly leaving anyone in this position.  
Yet only for Enjolras would he avoid waking him. Grantaire will simply guard him until he wakes up, or it’s time to head home. It's the hardest thing in the world not to inspect Enjolras, not to watch his face finally calm, see him at his most relaxed. Does he still look like a statue, even with his face lax and lips slightly parted? Does he still look marble and unattainable, with his mouth not full of words, his eyes not full of fire? Grantaire won't be creepy and try to see. He just sits with him, watching a YouTube series, ordering a drink when someone (not the red-head) comes to check on the table. They don't seem to mind him napping here, and Grantaire has to wonder if it's not the first time that Enjolras has done it.

His second drink is almost gone when suddenly, a hand appears in front of him, waving incessantly. Pulling his headphones down around his neck, Grantaire looks over.

And is struck breathless.

Grantaire has never seen Enjolras look so unguarded. Enjolras is grumpy, true, but it's rather adorable. Like a sleepy kitten. His eyes, barely open, are furrowed under shapely brows. An angry mouth is under his nose, lips fading from a warm brown at their plumpest to a tanned pink where they meet. There is one small line between his brows, and one dark cheek is mottled from where he was resting against it. His hood is still pulled up, his hair still twisting out, from all around. He looks nearly like a lion.

“Ah, good morning, Simba,” Grantaire says. His grin is shining and bright, but that does not stop Enjolras from glaring. With how groggy he is, that glare is possibly the cutest thing Grantaire has ever seen. He reaches out and brushes his thumb across Enjolras’ forehead.

“...what?” Enjolras looks up, attempting to see where their skin had met.

“Simba. The Lion King? Your hair, Apollo.” Grantaire press the heels of his palms to his cheeks and spreads his fingers out. He wiggles them.

Enjolras scoffs and pulls his hood down. Those golden curls tumble down to his shoulders, still wild. “What are you doing here? What...what time is it?”

Grantaire glances back at his phone. “Almost 1 in the morning.”

“Shit, I told Combeferre I would text him at midnight...” Enjolras fumbles around for his phone, and Grantaire is taken aback by how human, how unguarded he seems. He could live in this moment forever.

He smiles and, taking a chance, reaches over to lower Enjolras hand. It's electric, and he wonders if his palm will scar. “I wouldn't bother – he's with Jehan right now. And they're rather. Busy.” Grantaire makes a kissing face at him, and Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up. “I was a little surprised too, but I saw it with my own eyes. They were kissing in my hallway as if they were star-crossed lovers, as if they need to pass breath over each other’s lips merely to stay alive.”

“So that's why you're here.” He moves his hand away and checks his phone anyways. There must be nothing to see, because it's set down quickly.

“You've got me.” Grantaire slowly brings his hand back to his side of the table, uses it to fiddle with the cord of his headphones. “And why is sleeping beauty here?”  
Enjolras gives him a look, and there's more venom in it now that he seems a bit more awake, more aware of his surroundings. Even that look makes Grantaire’s heart pound. He is glory personified. 'Lucien' was the perfect name for him, even if he rarely goes by his first name. It is as if his parents knew what wonder they were bringing into the world – no one knows what his birth name was, only that it was similar to the one he chose for himself. Grantaire wishes that they could still see his wonder; every one of them knows how badly they reacted to his coming out. In fact, he uses it in his speeches on transgender issues.

“I'm here because it happens to be a good place to work.” He gestures to his laptop, finally seems to notice that it is dead and closed. Enjolras looks at the indicator light and plugs the charger in upon seeing nothing but black. “I was writing a paper.”

“You were sleeping,” Grantaire answers him. “Pretty deeply, I might add – I've been sitting with you for nearly an hour. How long have you been in this booth?”

“...you were just watching me sleep?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Don't worry yourself so; I was watching videos and merely making sure that no one robbed you. You were dead to the world with your laptop right there in the open and your bag on the floor.” 

He frowns and reaches down to grab the bag. A moment of inspection and he nods as if everything is in place.  
“I've slept here before and no one has ever bothered me, you know.” His long fingers pick up a pen – to be that pen! - and use it to knot his hair into a bun on the top of his head. “No one until you.”

“A wandering vagabond, I, a thing of rags and stories!” Grantaire slaps a meaty hand to his chest. “I was simply keeping an eye on things; forgive me my chivalrous nature.” The waggle of the eyebrows Grantaire gives him would impress Courfeyrac, if only he were here to see. Not that he begrudges that particular absence, or anyone's – being alone with Enjolras is a dream come true. This atmosphere, the dim lighting, the curtains that shift with every move he makes, the smell of coffee and blueberry muffins. It's all perfection. Even with their banter. Especially with their banter. Grantaire loves to play with him this way.

“Whatever, fool. I don't even know why I plugged this in...” The laptop is unplugged then stowed away in his bag. “Do you think that Combeferre and Jehan would be. Done yet?”

Grantaire’s heart jumps into his throat, but he squashes it right back down. He doesn't mean anything by it. Enjolras just wants to know if Grantaire can go home so he can leave without guilt; after all, Grantaire did watch over him and his sense of justice would not 'repay' that with abandonment. “Probably. I know for a fact that Jehan is very proficient in matters of the bedroom.”

“...how?” The look in his eyes is honest, painfully honest, wide and in wonder. “How do you know that? I thought the two of you never dated?”

With a mental apology to Jehan, Grantaire flourishes his hand. “No, but that means nothing. What of free love? All of those speeches about a person's right to choose, about not slut shaming? You preach and deliver on the freedom of - “

“I wasn't judging you. I was just surprised. Society equates living together AND sleeping together with a couple.” Enjolras shrugs, but Grantaire notes him watching curiously. Enjolras has no clue that he was being teased. He never does. “Though, with how Jehan is, I shouldn't be surprised at all.”

They nod together; Jehan has been known to sleep with people they barely knew, because the person was interesting or beautiful. And each of them is immortalized in poetry – often without even knowing it. “Let's get out of here.”

Grantaire gathers up his things and pays for both of our orders throughout the night. Enjolras shifts a little during the exchange – he always seems uncomfortable with anyone else paying. He tells Enjolras not to worry and ushers him towards the door. The wind outside is whipping, but it is dry now. They take a minute, both of us, to pull up hoods and secure our bags. “I'll walk you home,” Grantaire says, and his heart flutters when Enjolras does not fight him on it.

Things quiet as they power through the wind – in the direction we're heading, it pounds down on us and makes conversation nearly impossible. After a moment, Grantaire steps in front of him. His large form shields that tiny man from the brunt of it, and he can feel Enjolras’ lips forming a disgruntled pout behind me. When he steps to the side and speeds up, Grantaire thinks he is just trying to get on even ground. But no, Enjolras keeps going, to walk directly ahead of him. Grantaire’s laugh is lost to the wind, but he lets Enjolras have his moment.

They turn, finally, and are able to fall back into step. “You did well from your boxing, then? Does it pay out well if you win?”

“It certainly does!” Grantaire cannot contain himself. Enjolras is showing interest in him, in his hobbies. He could fly. “If I win, I make more than I do in my real job. Especially when the others pad my envelope with their winnings. Especially Courf. You know, he ended up as my coach, somehow, so I tell him to keep it as a fee or payment, but he doesn't listen.”

“He never does.” More silence, though comfortable this time, though. It's drizzling by the time Enjolras opens his mouth again, and his voice is quiet as they walk down the empty side street. “...I liked seeing you box. I never thought I would see you try so hard. You put a great amount of effort into fighting that giant. It's obvious you put in time in between games, too.”

Games. Boxing games. That was the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. “Bouts, Ali. Matches, even. Not games.” He only pulls away a little when Grantaire teasingly knocks his knuckles against those curls. “But yes – I've been boxing for a long time. It's an ancient game, you know.”

“I'm aware.” Enjolras quiets again, and it's unlike him. It's odd, but Grantaire is happy enough just to walk with him, just to have their hands sometimes brush. They move along and Grantaire’s eyes fall to Enjolras’ feet, gray Converse turned black by rain and puddles. They're large feet for such a small man – thin feet, but long.  
“Did you start drinking or boxing first?”

“I.” The question stuns Grantaire, buries itself in his flesh, makes a home of his very soul. The words, the...the tenderness of how he asks it. Enjolras asks as if he truly cares of the answer. “I don't know. I can't say for sure. It's been a long time for the both of them. I...can't pinpoint either.”

“Especially not the drinking,” he mutters, and it is the truth. There are a few steps that lead up to the front of Enjolras’ building, and Grantaire takes them faster than he does. Grantaire makes it up to the top, and a hand closes around his wrist as his arm extends backwards. He turns, feeling himself move in slow-motion. Enjolras' hand is closed around his wrist, their arms outstretched. The rain is harder now, pattering down on their hoods, illuminating the light sky with reflected lights, the smears of colour from the street. “I...I am glad that you weren't drunk tonight. It's not safe for you.”

Grantaire can't help the harsh chuckle that comes from his throat, his lips. “I am perpetual.”

“You are imperiled.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and Grantaire moves back down the stairs until he is one step above him. With his other hand, Enjolras reaches up and pulls Grantaire’s hood down more securely. What is in his eyes, Grantaire cannot name – only that it makes his heart echo in his chest, and his breath comes short. “I am worried for you, R.”

“You don't have to be,” he says. But anything cavalier has fled from Grantaire’s body. He feels raw, and exposed, and he would give anything to be able to laugh Enjolras off, laugh Enjolras away. Grantaire cannot; Enjolras lives within him, and his words are sucked from his body. Grantaire is drowning in his presence.  
Enjolras raises himself one step, then surpasses Grantaire to stand one step higher. Now he is backlit, face hidden by his hood. Grantaire remembers him in the apartment, as he lay propped up on the couch. And Grantaire want to please him. He would never touch a drop of anything harder than apple juice again, if only Enjolras asked. Which Grantaire thinks would anger him – he's the sort to believe change should be for one's own improvement, and not for others. It seems the sort of thing he would believe in. Grantaire’s face remains turned up towards him. “Grantaire,” Enjolras says, his voice an enigma. But then he is gone, pulled away, and rushing into his building, a flash of red that Grantaire fears he will never understand.

Still. Enjolras expresses concern for him. Grantaire worries him. Frightens him. They are negative emotions, ones that Grantaire would never wish upon his beloved. Not at his hand. And yet...they mean that Enjolras thinks of him. Enjolras thinks of him as someone worth his concern.

Grantaire’s wrist tingles where Enjolras touched him, held him, and his flesh yearns for Enjolras as loudly as his heart does. Every cell calls for him, sings for him, tells Grantaire to go after him. Instead, he turns on his heel, unable to keep a wavering smile from his lips, and begin the steady, soaking march home.


	7. Ch. 6

After a heavy, warm sleep with Cheese Curd and Oscar, Grantaire wakes late to start breakfast. He'll make waffles, blueberry ones. A lot of waffles, since Combeferre's heavy boots are still neatly by the door, his leather vest slung over the couch. It was quiet when Grantaire got home, as he showered, and when he watched TV until bed. He can hear shuffling now, in Jehan's room. Grantaire is happy to see that the robe he bought them is being used.

Seeing it stretched over Combeferre's shoulders, however, and NOT Jehans', makes him laugh; Grantaire has to set down the mixing bowl and lean against the counter. “'Ferre!” he gasps. “That's...that's definitely not big enough for you, and I really don't think the sash suits you!”

Combeferre gives him a half-hearted glare, but it doesn't reach his eyes. No, those are full of joy. Combeferre’s hair is mussed, and there are darker splotches of skin on his neck. Grantaire winks at him and his entire body shudders, flustered and embarrassed. “I...they...Grantaire, don't tease me.”

“I'm not teasing you! I was simply stating a fact. You KNOW that you could have borrowed some of my clothes.” Another wink; Grantaire just can't help himself. “Sit down; I'm making breakfast.”

Combeferre sits, folding his arms on the table. He feels much more awkward than Grantaire does. It's practically radiating off of him. R wonders for a moment if he should be wearing sunglasses. Instead, he just gives Combeferre a knowing look and turn away to mix the blueberries into the batter. “You, uh,” Combeferre tries to start again. “You don't seem surprised to see me.”

“I'm not,” Grantaire says easily. “I happened to see you feeling up our dear sweet Jehan in the hallway last night, and made myself scarce.” What Grantaire don't say is that he knew it was coming. When Jehan wants something, they most certainly get it. He doesn't know what's going on between them or what Jehan has told ‘Ferre, so he just keeps his mouth shut. If this works out for the best, THEN he can gloat on my roommate's behalf.

‘Ferre shuffles a bit. “Oh, I didn't mean to kick you out or anything. It wasn't. Planned.” Grantaire turns and must look more dangerous than he thinks, what with a batter covered whisk in his hand. “I mean! It was...nice, it was a nice impromptu date, and, and...and after-date. Just nothing we. Set out to do.”

“No worries on my account; I've been sexiled more times than I can remember.” Grantaire abandons his batter for a moment and digs out out ancient waffle press. It takes a while to heat up, and he should have plugged it in before he even started the batter. Ah well – he'll just have to keep sampling and testing the batter to tide him over. “What exactly... _did_ you set out to do?”

As if he's going to be caught in some inappropriate, Combeferre hesitates. Doesn't he know that Grantaire will get all of the gory details out of Jehan, anyways? “We were going to that little bookshop they like, just for something to do. We spent a long time in there, pawing through old books, reading, what have you.”

Jehan moves out into the kitchen with a smile. “I lost him in a pile of Kant,” they say as a way of 'good morning.' They are absolutely glowing in joy, and Grantaire is nearly as enraptured with their shining smile and grace as Combeferre is. There is something in the way those two look at each other that speaks volumes, and Grantaire thinks he has his answer concerning their relationship status. “We stayed until close.”

“And I bought them empty journals,” Combeferre says with a smile.

That makes Jehan laugh. “Grantaire, he's missing the best part. As we go to pay, this glorious man picks me up and sets me on the counter.” They start to laugh, and wrap their arms around Combeferre's shoulders. “Then he...he looks at the cashier and says 'E-excuse me, but I would like to check out this...this hot bestseller...!'”

  
Now that Jehan is laughing too hard to continue, and Combeferre, looking down at the table, picks up the tale. He is mortified and Grantaire loves every second of it. “The cashier looks at me and goes 'Sir, this isn't a library.' Then I had to wait and pay him and everything, after Jehan got on him for using gendered terms.”

“Meaning respect and trying to be polite are one thing, but you can accomplish the same thing with a kind tone!” Jehan seems too happy to even go on their never-ending diatribe against sir, ma'am, and the like. Usually, they can get very fiery about the subject, but something – possibly the matching bite marks on their neck – tells him that they're too tired for such a thing.

“Well, it certainly sounds like you had an exciting time,” Grantaire says, pouring some batter into the now hissing iron.

“It was exhilarating.”

Being with them, as happy as they are, exhausts Grantaire. He is not jealous of Combeferre, not because of the intimacy between Jehan and himself. No, he is thrilled that they sit on the couch together, legs entwined, watching some nature documentary. Grantaire keeps to himself in his room, door open so they don't feel as if they kicked him out. The newspaper is on his floor and a canvas set up against the wall, and Grantaire’s brushes are out, so he is content. Yet...he is jealous. Jealous of the ease of them, jealous of how they have found each other. They seem calm, joyful. Grantaire would like that calm for himself.

By the time he comes out to wash out his mugs – lovingly labeled with 'paint water' and 'not paint water' by Feuilly after one too many mishaps – they are very done with their documentary. Grantaire wonders if, in their intense make out session on the couch, they even notice him. At least he knows that the smell of alcohol radiating from him, from his room, is covered up by paint, and that his failures will not interrupt their success.

It's hours and one order of Chinese food later when his phone rings. Grantaire rather expects Éponine, whom he had been texting since he put his paints up, but it is not her voice Grantaire hears when he picks up without even looking at the screen. “Hello, you've reached the Psychic Hotline; we were expecting your call.”

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice jolts through Grantaire. “Oh! Enjolras, are you actually CALLING someone instead of texting them? Are you sick? Shall I come over and feed you chicken soup? Should I call Joly?” he laughs, but even Grantaire can hear the thickness to his own voice, the way it stumbles over itself in a way that only cognac can cause. Enjolras will know he’s drunk, and even though he is still not used to this newly found embarrassment over it, Grantaire wishes that he could hide the intoxication all the same. He’s not too far gone, though, not like other recent nights.

“Don't you even joke about that,” he says. “Is Combeferre still in your apartment? He hasn't answered his phone all day and now it's not even going through.”

“He's here, Apollo, no worries. A little preoccupied, but here. On the couch, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, as if they are two rivers...two wild rapids, crashing into one another at the mouth of a great ocean, ready to mingle with all the brings life, ready to BE life, ancient and powerful and-”

His murmur of 'drunk again' stops Grantaire in his tracks. Enjolras, as always, is eager to speak up now that Grantaire has finally shut his mouth. “That's fine. I just needed to go over some things for Les Amis with him and was hoping to...never mind.” His sigh could push breath into the lungs of a dead man. “Just tell him I called, if you can remember to do so.”

He sounds tired, and Grantaire is struck with the urge to go to him, to settle him in for a Saturday off. In fact, he should do just that, venture to Enjolras’ house and make sure that he's not working too hard. “Are you at home?”

“Yes, why d-”

“Stay there, I'm coming over. I'll see you in a bit!” Grantaire can hear Enjolras telling him not to, but the idea is in his head and he knows that it will be fine once he’s over there. Grantaire comes out into the now empty living room, humming, and slips his shoes on. He grabs his hoodie as he heads out the door.

 

\----

 

When he knocks on the door of Enjolras’ place – the bottom of a split level – Grantaire is still smiling, still reeling a bit, and still sure of himself. The trip seemed to take ages, but that must just be Grantaire’s excitement to see him. Enjolras takes what must be a century to open the door, and answers Grantaire’s bright grin with a scowl. Enjolras sniffs once and looks ups at Grantaire more through his eyebrows than actually tilting his head upwards. “You reek.”

“And hello to you, too!” Grantaire slips into the room past him, delighted that he doesn't try to stop the motion. It's cluttered in here. Not messy, just full of books and papers and a hamper that looks as if it is waiting by the door to head to laundromat. Grantaire’s been here before, a few times, and as always the enduring smell of him, permeating everything, brings joy to swell in my chest. Grantaire plops down on the end of his couch near the fishbowl. “Victor! My old friend! This...uh. IS still Victor, right?”

Enjolras is still standing in front of his door, and doesn't seem to pleased with the reminder of his inability to keep anything more complex than a fake fern alive. Or maybe that's just his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting! Wait.” Grantaire has to stop and think for a moment. “No! I am on a mission, sent here with very important orders. Orders to make you sit down for once and rest!”

“Orders from who? And I AM resting.” He points to a mug on the table, among a mess of school work and what looks like petition drafts for something or another As if that proves that he's resting. Grantaire reaches out and picks it up. It is full, and it is cold. He just gives Enjolras a look, but he just sends it back.

Grantaire shakes his head and sets the mug back down. “The people will live another day without your help. And it's Sunday, don't do homework on a Sunday. Sunday is for rest! Relaxation! Sitting!”

“I can sit and work at the same time.” Still, Enjolras comes back to the couch and sits down, on the opposite end from Grantaire. He's wearing his hoodie and looks disheveled, arms folded over his chest. He brings his feet to rest on the coffee table, in the only clean space on it, and yanks his computer into his lap. “You can stay if you want, but I have more entertaining things to do than entertain a toddler.”

“No no no, that's not what I came over here for.” Grantaire scoots over to the middle of the couch, close enough to touch Enjolras, and peers at his screen. “The societal implications of a fascist controlling of unnecessarily strict dress codes in schools throughout our nation are nothing but a danger to women and young girls at every stage of- see? No. These are not Sunday words.” Grantaire reaches across him – he draws his hand back up to his chest – and saves the document, then shuts his laptop and put it on the end table.

“Grantaire,” he huffs. “I take it back. You can't stay.”

“I'll make you brownies,” Grantaire offers. When he's been drinking – even though he can feel myself settling down now, slowly but surely – he loves to bake. And Enjolras, as they all know, is a chocolate fiend. Grantaire hopes that when he is running for office, his competition doesn't offer him a torte in exchange for withdrawing from the campaign. Despite his views, his passion, and his drive, Enjolras might actually be weak and agree to it with the promise of fudge.

He glowers. “You can stay a little while. I'm still going to work, though.”

Grantaire wanders into the kitchen and paws through his pantries. Bless him. Bless the box of brownie mix he finds. As much as Grantaire loves Jehan, sometimes he just wants a box of brownie or cake mix without having to worry about if it will have to pass their inspection of contents. It's a weird brand he’s never heard of before, and must come from some local thing. Enjolras isn't quite as organic as Jehan, but would rather be caught dead than going into some big box store for brownie mix provided by some huge conglomerate. Still, with the eggs and vegetable oil Grantaire finds, these brownies will be much easier than from scratch. Which he certainly has no problem doing, even tipsy, but this will be much faster. Grantaire hears him typing away in the living room, his fingers on the keys providing a rhythm for measuring and cracking and stirring.

By the time he comes back out into the living room, brownies in the oven, Enjolras is lost in his work. He barely grunts in acknowledgment of Grantaire’s presence. So R decides to let him work. He can have whatever time is left until the brownies cool to work. Grantaire just fiddles with his phone, reading Le Gorafi articles until the timer goes off. He uses his sleeves as oven mitts, since he can't find a single one anywhere in the kitchen. The brownies look beautiful as Grantaire sets them to cool.

“Are they ready?” There is a tired face in the doorway when he turns around. Enjolras is stunning even in his sweatpants and barefoot.

“They have to cool,” Grantaire says, moving over to the fridge. A quick inspection of the freezer reveals half a container of vanilla ice cream. Perfect. Grantaire hears him pattering over to the table as he look in the fridge. “No chocolate syrup?”

“Nutella's in the cupboard.” Ah. Yes. Nutella. It had been a sore spot for a while, between Enjolras' love of the stuff, concerns of environmental impact, and the Nutella tax. But Grantaire always knew that nothing would stop Enjolras from buying container after container, which Grantaire has seen him eat with only a spoon or, in especially dire circumstances, his fingers.

Grantaire gets it out, nudges Enjolras’ hand away from the hot pan of brownies, and pours them both a glass of almond milk. “Did you get your work done?”

“My work is never done,” he says, taking his glass up.

“It is now.” His glare does nothing to Grantaire; if Enjolras' anger were a weapon, Grantaire would have died years ago. He just shakes his head. “We'll have our brownies, put on the TV – not news – and relax, alright? It's early enough to still get some downtime in, and I won't have you dying of a heart attack at age 25 because you don't take care of yourself.”

His snort of derision puts every past snort of derision to shame. “As if you can talk.”

“I am an _athlete_ ,” Grantaire shoots back, glad to have their little banter.

“You're an alcoholic, Grantaire.”

The mood of the room shifts, from the joy of friendly bickering to the misery of a man's heart stopping within his chest. Even as Grantaire looks at Enjolras, he understands that the smaller man had not meant to cut so deeply, that he had not meant to use that word. His meaning doesn't matter. He's said it, spit it out like poison, and it IS poison that runs through Grantaire’s veins. The silence is so thick that he may drown in it, and he cannot stand the way his eyes burn. Grantaire shakes his head and stands up, hands flat on the table. Grantaire has to circle it, past him, to get to the brownie pan, and in his peripherals, Enjolras reaches out. And Grantaire moves away.

There are no words as he cuts out the brownies – still too warm – and scoop them into two bowls. A messy scoop of ice cream on each, and Grantaire leaves Enjolras to his damned Nutella. Half of him wants to leave, but that would mean stealing the spoon and bowl in his hand. Instead, Grantaire sits on the end of the couch, bowl in his lap, and watches Victor. He swims in his little bowl with a pirate ship at the bottom, looping around, going up, going down. Grantaire’s legs feel the warmth of the brownie, the cool of the ice cream, but every other part of him just feels hurt.

It's nearly five minutes later when he hears Enjolras exit the kitchen. Grantaire refuses to turn towards him, but he doesn't need to see Enjolras to know what he's doing. He feels Enjolras sit down, not on the opposite end of the couch, but in the middle section. What Grantaire does see is his hand bringing a spoon to his bowl, banging it against the edge until a large dollop of Nutella lands in his quickly puddling ice cream. Enjolras says nothing, just turns on the TV. It hums to life and he finds some cooking show. Grantaire doesn't eat, cannot stand the idea of even moving right now. Enjolras’ spoon hits his dish, though, and Grantaire wonders if he is eating because he truly wants too, or just to have something to do in this awkward, painful situation. Each bite jostles him against him, and he cannot pretend that they do not touch.

Finally Grantaire turns slightly to face the TV and finally picks up his spoon. He can't concentrate on the show or the taste with Enjolras so close. And when his arms wrap around Grantaire’s bicep, he knows that Enjolras is sorry. It makes him want to cry. He just eats instead.

When Grantaire sets his bowl down next Victor, Enjolras stirs. “Grantaire,” he begins. Any attempt to shush him is ignored. So Grantaire turns to look at him. Enjolras’ arms are suddenly around his neck, torsos pressed together. Grantaire raises his free hand in surprise, unsure of what to so. Slowly, he hooks my arm around Enjolras, palm coming to rest between his shoulder blades. Enjolras shifts, and Grantaire realizes that he is soft and freed. He’s never even seen Enjolras unbound, much less touched him in such a state. Grantaire didn't even notice before, but he supposes he never expected much up there, with his size – but no, don't think about that, he would hate that. Grantaire feels guilty for even dwelling on it. Instead, he just holds Enjolras close. He hardly remembers Enjolras has spoken until he does so again. “I didn't me-”

“I know.” Grantaire doesn't want to pull away; he wants to hold onto Enjolras and pretend that it is infinite. But he has to let go, he must. Slowly, carefully, Grantaire separates himself from him. His eyes are sad, and Grantaire never want to see them that way again. Grantaire’s mouth opens, but no words form, and his lips meet once more. A deep breath before he can try again. “But Enjolras. But, Lucien. You...are not wrong. I have always, and forever will be, everything you have said about me since the moment we met. And that includes what you said tonight.”

  
Grantaire cannot say it himself, cannot claim the word 'alcoholic' and have the universe spit it back at him as every memory that he has, and every memory that has been lost to bottles, couches, and bleary mornings.

He sighs heavily and settles back against the couch. Enjolras wraps an arm around his bicep, rests his temple against Grantaire’s arm. “Still. I should not have said it. It's not a weapon, not in the games we play.”

Despite his overwhelming sadness, it does Grantaire good to know that Enjolras knows their arguments are a game. Even in times unlike this, when a serious view is not necessary, he is stony faced and severe. It can often be hard to tell if he understands when something is lighthearted. “I...don't blame you. It is...perhaps something I need to hear, to. I don't know. Understand.” There are no more words for it. Grantaire sighs. “Can we just...forget that happened? Watch something? Or, I could leave, I know you weren't crazy about me being here in the first place.”

“No,” he says. Enjolras tips his face towards Grantaire’s, a shining beacon even in sorrow, and tightens his grip. “No, stay.”

Grantaire relaxes into the couch a little bit more. “Anything for you, Apollo.”


	8. Ch. 7

On most mornings, waking up to see an unfamiliar ceiling means another night that he’s wasted, more of his life that he’s thrown away. This morning, however, Grantaire wakes without a headache and to the smell of evergreen that lingers just so on only one person.

Grantaire turns his head and looks out over the messy coffee table, the TV that's lightly buzzing, and his shoes next to the door. The feeling of the entire apartment is so essentially Enjolras that he may cry. It's light out, that much Grantaire can tell from his position on the couch, but he has no clue what time exactly. He feels so content that he doesn't even care to look, but a glance at the floor shows a light blinking on his otherwise dark phone. Bless pack-rat Enjolras for never getting rid of anything, including old chargers, or it would be dead. But that light means Grantaire has unchecked messages. With a grunt he rolls enough to take it and pull it up to his face. Just one from Jehan, last night around two, after exchanging a few texts to let them know where he was. "Staying out all night with Enjolras? ; 3 Have funnn~" Grantaire chuckles and drops the phone on the cushion next to him, but not before looking at the time. 5:30 am. Too late to go back to sleep if he wants to get home, shower, and change before heading out to his first walk.

He rolls into a sitting position and scratches his head. Their conversation yesterday had drifted from serious to not to bickering about any number of things, until the delicate balance shared between Enjolras and Grantaire fell back into place. Yet. They had fun. It was the first time it had ever been just the two of them for more than hour, for long enough to give them a chance to see what they were like without any of the others. And it was...nice. There is no artistic words for it, nothing flowing and flowering, no lyrics, no prose. It is nice to sit with Enjolras and just be, to let the banter come naturally and fade in the same way. He even let Grantaire read his paper - and Grantaire believes that some of his wonderful insights gave Enjolras the push needed to really make that paper worth the top marks that Grantaire is so sure he'll receive. Enjolras always receives top marks. He heaves a sigh and hauls himself up, into the bathroom. Enjolras is still not up when he returns, and Grantaire expects he won't be up until ten minutes before he has to be out the door. Getting Enjolras OUT of bed is as impossible as getting him in there in the first place. In his kitchen, Grantaire finds a note pad and a pencil. He sketches out a small, cartoonish replica of his own own face, with a speech bubble saying "thanks for the couch! had to run," then stick it to the table where Enjolras is sure to see it.

It's not until Grantaire is walking his dogs later in the morning that he realizes he’s left Enjolras a little heart as well.

\----

Grantaire’s fists slam into the punch mitts with a power only intensified by the joy he experienced last night. He wishes he could show his water bottle full of vodka to Jehan, so they would see that he drinks even after good things. It is not due to circumstances. It is due to nothing but...desire. Need. Grantaire tries to punch each word out onto Bahorel's protected hands, trying to use every muscle in his body to obliterate them into the vast nothingness he himself is blessed to fall into with each drink.

"Focus, Herc," Bahorel grunts, his deep accent still strong even after so long in this country. "You got the force but not the aim - last one damn near knocked my thumb off."

"Sorry." Grantaire’s hair flops into his eyes, fallen out from that elastic. He hardly notices with how much he’s sweating and trying to concentrate on each hit. The sound of others practicing, in Courf and now apparently Bahorel's gym, is nothing but static to him, a background to his gloves and his feet. Bahorel moves his hands, giving Grantaire moving targets to work with, precise points to search for. He grins with each hit. Bahorel is always good for coaching, and now that he has dropped out of school he is forever searching for things to do. Often that involves things for Les Amis during the day time, when most of the rest are in class or at work. Enjolras respects him for that, and many times Grantaire has thought of offering to do the same, help between walks. But Enjolras does not like to accept his help. Enjolras likes to keep Grantaire away from his precious work. Enjolras confuses Grantaire with his cold gaze and his warm embrace. Enjolras -

"Why do you keep mumbling 'Enjolras?'" his target asks, suddenly no longer moving. Bahorel's hands are still up but he is calm, motionless, watching Grantaire with a bemused grin and a cocked eyebrow. "Dude, I understand sexual frustration but wanting to punch the guy out because you like him? That's a little brutal, don't you think?"

"I don't-" Of course Grantaire likes Enjolras. Everyone knows it. "It's not that I want to punch him and it DEFINITELY isn't sexual, but...it IS frustration. HE'S frustrating. LOVE is frustrating. LIFE is frustrating."

Bahorel just starts his bopping and swaying his once more. "Tell me about it."

So Grantaire does. Between every punch, every hit. In his sanctuary of bruised knuckles and split lips, he tells Bahorel his frustrations with Enjolras, with disappointing Jehan, and mostly, with himself. His lack of ambition. His miserable life. His jealousy.

Bahorel takes every word, every hit, in quiet. It isn't until he has worn himself out and is left laying on the floor panting does he realize how many of his painful secrets Grantaire has bared to this solid man. He shakes out a hand and takes up his bottle for a swig of vodka.

"Let me have a go," Bahorel says, motioning to the bottle as he plops down next to me. Grantaire could kiss him for not trying to dig deep, for not trying to provide any comfort.

"Uhm."

"I know it's vodka, I could smell it the minute you opened it." He takes the bottle and and downs a mouthful with a wince. "Next time you plan on giving my palms such a severe beating, bring some water too."

The addition of 'too' rather than the exclusionary 'instead' warms Grantaire to Bahorel even more, though a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Enjolras says that it isn't helpful. Grantaire ignores that voice, as he has done so many times before. He doesn't feel BETTER from outing his concerns and miseries to Bahorel. Lighter, maybe, but he remains the same miserable sack of shit he’s always been. Grantaire knows what he is, despite his worries and frustrations, and he knows there's no chance of things changing for the better. He just has to hope things don't get any worse. Still, laying on the floor with Bahorel, chest heaving, he is content.  
But not for long. "Alright, get your gloves on and let's do this for real."

\----

Grantaire must admit that he is pleased to see only Jehan and their pets in the apartment when he comes home. Combeferre is wonderful and Grantaire is thrilled that he and Jehan are a...whatever they are, but relaxing alone with Jehan is also nice. They're yawning against him on the couch, though, and he laughs. “For someone so sex-repulsed, Combeferre sure has worn you out.”

Jehan flushes. “Hush...he said that he feels differently about sex if it's with me and I know it probably shouldn't, but that DOES make me feel special...and for your information we only. Went all the way once! The rest was just...fondling.”

“Oh, stop looking so smug,” he says, swatting at their hair. “Look at you, so irresistible, so sexually appealing that even Combeferre, with no interest in nether bits besides medical curiosity and turning him into a ravenous beast of passion!”

“It's not like that!” They squeal. Jehan gets up and kneads their hands against his shoulder, much like a Oscar does when he's trying to get comfortable. “He just said that, if he could do it with anyone, maybe it would be someone he's liked for years. Years, Grantaire! Imagine the two of us, pining for so long, watching the other from afar, never knowing that our hearts beat in time!”

The thought makes Grantaire’s own heart ache, makes him wonder what Enjolras is doing. Grantaire wants to text him, but is worried that it will break the calm between them again. How can he be so in love with a man that worries and angers him so?

“What about Enjolras...did you finally get into those skinny jeans?” They laugh at Jehan’s words; Enjolras hasn't worn anything but skinny jeans since the moment the stores started stocking them in the men's section. “Whisk him off of his feet?”

“We argued about the social structures within the educational system. Which, honestly, might be the same thing for him.” Another laugh. “It was a fun night, honestly. I never planned to spend the entire day with him, especially since I wasn't completely sober when I went over, but it turned out well.”

Grantaire hadn't meant to mention being drunk, and Jehan tenses at it. “I'm so-”

They hold up a hand. “Don't, Grantaire. I know that you drink, alright? You don't need to hide it from me...in fact, I would rather know.” That makes him a little bit angry, and he doesn't even know why. “It's safer, alright? We can be safe about it.” The pat of his hand quells Grantaire’s anger, and even if he can tell that they're still tense, and he doesn't understand it, he sighs.

“Alright. I...won't hide it.” Grantaire only does it now because he is ashamed. Before Gavroche found him on the kitchen floor, Grantaire had never been ashamed. He stomach feels a little off; he decidedly does not like it. “Let's not ruin our good night,” Grantaire says, grabbing up one of the Wii remotes; the wheel goes into their hands. “Get off me and let's see if you can't finally win a race.”

\----

That Tuesday morning is nice and slow. Breakfast with Jehan, walking the dogs with Gavroche (who is thrilled to have the day off of school, for some reason or another.) And Grantaire has to admit, it was very pleasant to have his morning drink with breakfast rather than thrown back in the bathroom before brushing his teeth. This life is strange; nothing remains the same. One moment he can be joyful; the next, he can be miserable. Things can change so quickly.

Perhaps a little warning would be nice, Grantaire muses over his sandwich for lunch. Even though the weather is steadily getting colder, he remains at one of the outside tables. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, but it's not there. It's not in any pocket, or in his bag. Grantaire walks through his steps in his mind, hoping he didn't leave it in some park or a client's apartment. He doesn't remember using it once he left the apartment, with Gavroche's companionship, and is pretty sure that the last time he saw the thing, it was laying his couch. It's not an expensive phone, and he’s due for an upgrade soon, so he doesn't worry about it.

Grantaire barely has time to finish up his after-dinner walk; by 6pm it's pouring. Too wet for a man with a sketchbook in a very non-waterproof bag to be outside. He holes up in the Sainte-Geneviève Library after dropping off each dog, and finds a table off to the side, suitable for sitting and sketching. The building is beautiful, and though the organic, natural form is his forte, Grantaire cannot help but move his pencil in the direction of walls, domes, and beams. The building is so lovely that he can practically feel it breathing, pulsing with the life of every person who has ever crossed these halls. He finds it calming in way his teenage self would have called disgusting. But it is a warm place, for drawing and, later on when the rain shows no signs of stopping, finding a book and a quiet corner in which to read. It's a large book, artsy and full of purple prose, and Grantaire finds myself comfortable.

Very comfortable, in fact, and before he knows it a staff member is in front of him. "It's just about closing time”, she says with a soft smile. Grantaire looks off to the side and notices the darkened windows. Is it already 10? "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, but we're open tomorrow."

"Oh, thanks...” Grantaire gathers up his things and checks out that book he had been reading, since he only has about a quarter of it left - he can't wait to show Combeferre the tome he’s read - and moves out into the darkened streets. The train ride home does make Grantaire wish he had his phone; he likes to listen to music on the train. It's a shame reading on the train makes him sick, or he would lose himself in that book yet again. Instead he loses himself in the rocking of the train and the murmur of conversation around him. In the station Grantaire sees a man playing guitar, his case open in front of him. He throws whatever coins remain in his pocket. The walk from the stop to his apartment is only a couple blocks, not a bad distance, really, and at least by now the rain has slowed to a light, misty drizzle.

His street is characteristically dead at this hour, being the middle of the week. Grantaire whistles a little as he unlocks the door to his building and sees that the elevators are out of order. He shrugs and makes for the stairs. There's an odd thumping sound coming from above him and he realizes as he opens the door to his floor that it’s coming from near the elevators. Sheer curiosity brings him meandering around the corner.

What Grantaire expects, he does not know; what he sees is Joly, standing in front of the elevator. He shuffles a bit, moving back and forth between his two feet and his cane. "Ah, so you're the one making all the racket. I'm afraid the elevators are all out, Joly."

Sweet Joly’s tear-stained face when he turns to see Grantaire sucks any mirth from his voice or face. "Oh thank god, we've been trying to get a hold of you all night...Grantaire, we need to get to the hospital. There's been an accident, Enjolras is hurt -"

Everything Grantaire has ever known disappears and the world screeches to a halt. "Hurt? how badly? What happened?"

"Let's just go, I'll tell you what I know once we're in the car." It's true. If they have to take the stairs, there's no way he'll be able to talk; Grantaire can already see him limping. With help, he slowly moves down those damn stairs, and over his heart pounding in his ears Grantaire curses those elevators for being out. He wants to run, to rush, to race. But they make it and move to Joly's car. Grantaire wants to offer to drive, but thinks he might be too antsy, anyways. Only once they are on the road does Joly start to breath easier. "Alright. He's not in life-threatening danger, but he IS hurt. The ambulance came in just at the end of my shift, I only caught him being brought in by chance. There was some sort of car accident. I let Combeferre know - he and a few of the others are there right now, but since we couldn't get a hold of you we thought it best that someone come wait for you. But I was getting anxious. I wanted to get back and figured I would send Jehan home or something, I just don't know..."

Grantaire’s own breathing is shallow in his chest, and fast. His heart is beating outside of itself, pounding, throbbing. "N-no one knows what happened?"

"When I left, no, and no one's texted me since, the service on that whole block is abysmal. We'll get there and find out." He takes one look at Grantaire and removes one hand from the wheel. Grantaire takes it in his own, grateful for the small comfort when everything else in his world feels like it's spinning out of control.

The hospital is too calm for him. He expected worry, rush, but the waiting room is quiet and the halls nearly empty. Grantaire wants to scream to break the silence, the tension that he wonders if anyone else can even feel. Joly speaks to the receptionist and Grantaire notices for the first time that he's still wearing his scrubs. There is a great sigh of relief when he gets the room number and pulls Grantaire towards the elevator. "He's just been taken out of surgery, alright? He's resting, the others should be outside his room..."

Grantaire doesn't realize until they find the room and Jehan throws themself into his arms, immediately drying his face, that he’s been crying. The hall is full, but quiet, and Grantaire finds it hard to believe that no one has made their group disperse. Combeferre himself is speaking with a nurse, Courfeyrac uncharacteristically quiet next to him. Bousset sits on the floor, Musichetta next to him with her legs in his lap. Grantaire sees Joly bustle over to them, then turn his gaze to Jehan.

"Oh Grantaire, where were you? We tried calling, texting..."

"Sorry, my phone...I left it, and the rain kept me inside I...what happened to him? Is he okay...?" His own voice is raspy. Around him, everything feels distant and silent. Grantaire slowly realizes that everyone, even the nurse, is staring at him. His voice must be too loud. But behind those stares, he feels hesitation. Quiet. Even Jehan takes a step back and is looking at him with a very careful gaze. "What...what happened?"

Jehan glances behind them at Combeferre. "Well. Uhm. He was hit by a car...." They hesitate again, voice strained. Grantaire can feel every single molecule against his skin, can hear every breath being taken. "It was a drunk driver."

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK. He pushes away from Jehan and storms off down the hall. A few footsteps as they chase after him, the muffled voice of Combeferre telling them to wait, to come back. Or maybe he's speaking to Grantaire. He doesn't know and doesn't care; all he cares about is getting out from under their heavy gazes before the weight of it all crushes him. Grantaire throws himself around the corner, into an empty hallway. Everything is pounding against him; he feels like he'll explode. Grantaire whirls and slams his fist into a wall. Something cracks and pain radiates through his hand, up into his wrist. Grantaire sees the blood before he even realizes that he might have damaged himself. He presses his other hand against his mouth and sobs into it. Slowly, Grantaire sinks to his knees and lets his aching hand fall into his lap. His chest is heaving, his face burning; yet, despite the strangled sounds coming from his mouth, there are no tears. A drunk driver hit Enjolras, sent him to the emergency room. That so easily could have been Grantaire behind the wheel, sure that this problem is no problem, that he is fine, hurting him, hurting someone else, sending another person's world spiraling into a confusing, rushed hell.

Things can change so quickly.


	9. Ch. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this go around! A bit of a warning for some self-destructive thoughts on Grantaire's part! For this and the following chapters.

Combeferre is the one to find him. He first looks at the bloody spot on the wall – barely more than a spot, where Grantaire’s knuckles had scraped against the grout - then bends to touch his shoulder. Combeferre’s large hand is warm while Grantaire feels so cold. “Let me see.”

He does nothing. The only thing to do is nothing. Ferre slowly trails his hand down Grantaire’s arm, probably thinking himself considerate for giving a chance to for Grantaire to pull away, then raises the injured hand. Grantaire’s right one. It's his dominant hand, for boxing, for painting. He wishes it was shattered. He wishes it was broken beyond repair. It hurts as Combeferre moves it, despite his touches being so gentle that every doctor should taken lessons from him, and Grantaire hisses in pain.

 

“You've hurt yourself,” he says, and Grantaire finally turns to face him. He has, but what does it matter when Enjolras is laying in that hospital bed? Combeferre looks very tired; he's been crying too. “We need to get you an x-ray.”

 

“No,” Grantaire grumbles. He yanks his hand away – painfully – and clutches it to his chest. His head is swimming. “I...I have to see him.”

 

“He's asleep,” Combeferre says. Grantaire lets his friend help him to his feet. “If you want to wait here to see if he wakes up tonight, you might as well get an x-ray.” Everything is a blur, a painful blur, and Grantaire lets Combeferre lead him away.

 

Eventually Grantaire is transferred from Combeferre to Joly. As a resident here, he's made friends, and Grantaire has a feeling Joly's cashing in all of his favours to get him in for this x-ray so late at night, to make sure they don't all get kicked out. Grantaire still says nothing, and he blessedly does not push it. Joly’s probably in his zone right now, anyways, walking Grantaire through the x-ray, telling the technician what happened, taking note of everything she says. He has no idea how long he’s been there, how long it has been since he punched the wall. He’s too upset, too broken in so many ways. A drunk driver did this. Enjolras is laying in a hospital bed all because of someone like him. Grantaire feels so guilty. Somehow, in the grand scheme of things, this is all his fault. “Did you hear, Grantaire?”

 

“Hmm?” He looks up to Joly finally facing him again, wrapping his wrist and hand in a stretchy bandage.

 

“Just a sprain. You knocked your knuckles pretty hard and they're really bruised up, but no lasting damage. You'll need to take a break from boxing for a little, but you'll be back in the ring in no time.”

 

Grantaire just shrugs. Boxing suddenly couldn't matter less to him. Nothing matters. Joly takes his uninjured hand and holds it on the way back to Enjolras' room. The absence of anyone except Combeferre in the hallway is terrifying. “D-did something happen?”

 

He shakes his head. “Everyone was banished to the waiting room, but I decided to stick around; I knew you'd be back.” Combeferre moves to the door Enjolras is behind, peeks into it. “He's still asleep, but if you wanted to go in...just be careful. I'll keep a watch out for nurses.”

 

Grantaire races into the room, and is immediately deafened by the silence of it.

 

Enjolras looks so small.

 

One leg is held up, the left one, his ankle and foot in a cast. His right arm is similarly encased, safely resting on his chest. And his face, that beautiful face, is scraped, bruised, bandaged. There is a chair in between his bed and the screen separating the other side of the room, and Grantaire has never been more grateful to sit down in his entire life. He never wants take his eyes from Enjolras. He wants to rip him from these stark surroundings and bring him back to the glory, where he belongs. He is breathing calmly. “...Enjolras, did I ever tell you about the raccoon?”

 

Grantaire curses himself for hoping for an answer. “I'm not surprised that I didn't. No one really knows about her. At least, I was pretty sure she was a girl. I found her in the backyard at the house I stayed at sometimes, out in the country. She was small, and she bit. When I first found her, I didn't know that she bit. All I knew was that she was hurt. Her little back leg was at an odd angle, and she moved slowly.” He looks down at his own pained, swelling wrist. “I wanted to help her, but I didn't know how. Uncle Felix – you know, thinking back on him, he definitely wasn't even my uncle, I wasn't related to any of them, thank God – would have told me I was being stupid and maybe even shot at the poor thing. So I set a trap for her, an old rusty rabbit trap or something I found in this disgusting old barn out back. She was scared, and she bit me, but I got a towel around her and hid her in the shed. I fed her, gave her water, even made a little splint for her – how I earned this scar right above my eye. You can hardly see it, but I promise it's there. I don't know how I kept her hidden from Uncle Felix or the other kids that hung out there, but I did, until one day. I went out to the shed and she was gone, chewed a hole in the wall or something.”

 

He shrugs, bent over with his elbows on his knees. Grantaire had been staring at the floor since he started talking, and he can still see her pointed little face, those grasping hands.

 

“...ever see her 'gain?” a slurred, tired voice comes from the bed.

 

Grantaire’s head shoots up, and Enjolras is watching him blearily. He can't help but smile. Smile and cry. Oh God, Grantaire’s crying, fat tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks. He stumbles to his feet and runs over to the bed. “N-no,” he hears himself stammering. “I never saw her again. Are you alright? Do I need to call a nurse? Combeferre, even, he's right outside...”

 

“Sad,” Enjolras mumbles, closing his eyes again. Whatever they have him on for the pain, and the anesthesia, have him groggy. “Sad...” Then he's out, and Grantaire is crying harder than ever.

 

Combeferre opens the door, seeing Grantaire sob. He comes in, quietly, and removes him from the room. Grantaire lets him, feeling better, for now, just having seen Enjolras move, heard him speak. In the hallway, Combeferre wraps his arms around Grantaire. It's just them, Joly gone off elsewhere, and he is relieved. He cries into Combeferre's vest, head dropped onto his shoulder, and after a moment realizes Combeferre is crying, too. It makes sense – Enjolras is his best friend. They've been friends since childhood, along with Courfeyrac. The two of them just stand there, crying onto each other, until the tears ebb naturally.

 

“He's going to be okay,” Combeferre promises. “His leg, his arm...some scrapes and bruises. But he'll be okay.”

 

“It. I-it could've been me,” Grantaire groans into that black denim.

 

He can tell from the way Combeferre curls a hand in the back of his jacket that he knows exactly what position could have been Grantaire’s. He mumbles to not say that, and Grantaire feels so miserable that he allows himself to fall into the comfort.

 

Finally, Combeferre ruffles his hair. “I think we all need to go home. Let's go get the others.” He sees the look in Grantaire’s eyes, his glance towards the door. “You can see him tomorrow.”

 

Grantaire holds up his good hand, pointer finger in the air. It's a little bit of a struggle to get his hoodie off, his usual green hoodie, warm and soft despite how well-worn it is, but once it's in his hands he ducks back into Enjolras' hospital room. Grantaire lays it over him gently, over that arm. He doesn't stir, just continues to breath, in and out. “Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow.”

 

Out in the hallway, he gives Combeferre a watery smile. “Let's go...I bet Joly wants to get home.”

 

He nods, and they move out to find the rest of their group. Éponine and Bahorel have both arrived, during some point, and Gavroche is sleeping in a chair. It turns out they had brought Enjolras a change of clothing. Just one. He should be able to go home tomorrow. Right? Grantaire has to believe that. Is he overreacting to this? He doesn't know. He just knows that He wants to go home and lay with Cheese Curd.

 

Jehan and Grantaire are quiet on the way home, holding hands. There's nothing to say, and they just take care of each other, support each other. At home he heats up leftover eggplant parmesan and after dinner, they head off to separate bedrooms. Grantaire fishes out a bottle of gin and takes a bedtime swig. It tastes like poison.

 

He drains the bottle anyways.


	10. Ch. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is my favourite chapter.

Combeferre wakes them both with the gift of breakfast. Crepes with fruit and scrambled tofu, and the hero of a man brought Grantaire bacon and a fried egg sandwich. The grease is as welcome in their apartment as he is; Grantaire would have kissed him full on the lips had he not been covered with a sleepy, mussed Jehan the moment he came in the door.

"I called the hospital," Combeferre says as they wash up from breakfast, Jehan in their morning shower. He wipes down the table as he washes the utensils they used. "Enjolras can come home today. But – and this is just me making assumptions, not a medical fact – with his injuries, he might have to be in a wheelchair for a while. He's going to be miserable to deal with if he's put in that situation.”

"A wheelchair? He lives alone..." Grantaire doesn't like that, not at all. It makes his insides crawl. But at least they know; bless Combeferre, bless Joly, bless their medical connections.

"With all of us checking on him, I don't think it will be a problem. Though." He looks over at Grantaire and smiles. "I thought I would tell you, first. I know you feel guilty and want to make up for something that you never did, R, but it's also a gift. Spend a little time with him under the guise of help."

Grantaire nods, grateful but unable to truly express it. "As long as you never call him a gift to his face."

"Believe me, I know better." He chuckles, and Grantaire wonders how he can even make that sound. While Combeferre emails professors from his phone about missing a few classes today, Grantaire calls a couple fellow dog walkers he knows, as well as his clients, trying to get the dogs he should walk today squared away with someone else. According to Combeferre, Courfeyrac is skipping today as well, and is at Enjolras' place, cleaning it up and moving things out of the way in case that wheelchair IS needed. With a break in his leg AND his arm, crutches just might not be a possibility.

It isn't until Combeferre asks to see his hand, turned around in the front seat of Jehan's neon purple car as they trundle towards the hospital, that Grantaire even remembers it's been injured. Yet the moment he remembers it, the pain is back, throbbing through his palm and knuckles. "Still swollen? Good thing I picked up your prescription, we don't need you in pain today."

"Prescription?"

"Pain meds. Joly told me that you had them, and I had no issue picking them up for you." Still, Grantaire notices how he uncaps the bottle, takes out two, then places the bottle in Jehan's lap. Jehan's. As if Grantaire can't be trusted with his own medication, as if he needs to have his own pills handed out to him like a child. But then Combeferre asks if he’s had anything alcoholic today, and Grantaire knows that Ferre is right not trust him. After Grantaire tells him that he’s totally sober, he hands over the pills and his water bottle.

The pain is lessened by the time they've parked and made for Enjolras' room, moving through the quiet morning air of the hospital. Grantaire makes sure he’s the first in the room. He's awake now, frowning at something on the TV, heavy bags below his eyes, lips moving as he mutters to himself. Grantaire turns to see some political show on the television up in the corner, and has to bark out a laugh - just seeing Enjolras sitting and awake is enough to raise his spirits to the moon. Grantaire moves over to the foot of his bed. "Barely awake from surgery and he's already catching up on things he missed!"

Enjolras gives him a glare, but it's rather half-hearted. Enjolras must still be tired. "Are you all here to take me home?" Grantaire looks behind him - Combeferre and Jehan are lingering in the doorway, watching. "Because I canno - what did you do to your hand?"

Grantaire follows Enjolras’ gaze to his bandaged wrist, which is red where his fingers and arm poke out at either end. "Oh, this?" Grantaire cannot tell him the truth – he'll laugh, he'll call him an idiot. "You know me, Apollo - always getting into scrapes. But look, we match now." Grantaire holds out his right hand, rest it on the cast covering Enjolras’ right arm. The blank expanse of his cast needs decorating; they'll have to find some markers. "Brothers in arms, we are!"

That look again, which melts his heart. In a good way. Grantaire is just so happy that Enjolras is ABLE to give it to him. Combeferre comes to his side, a nurse behind him. She runs through the rigmarole for Enjolras and for them - the medications, the food, and yes indeed, the wheelchair. Over Enjolras' arguing, Grantaire listens to every word from her mouth, making mental notes of everything. He wants to be of help.

Enjolras just wants to go home – they know because he keeps saying it, loudly - and Grantaire can't blame him. The nurse get him in the wheelchair, Combeferre wheeling him out. He huffs the whole way about how he doesn't NEED this. The struggle they have getting him into the car - the backseat, with his leg stretched out - is proof enough that he DOES need it. Grantaire sits on the opposite end, Enjolras’ leg barely long enough for that injured foot to sit in his lap. He's at least changed into his clean clothes. Enjolras talks to Combeferre, asking of all things about Les Amis. It's Wednesday (how this week is moving so quickly, Grantaire could never say) and Combeferre is telling him that there is no way in hell that he's holding a meeting like this. It sparks a debate, and Grantaire takes the chance to examine Enjolras' face. A large bruise on his chin. A scrape along his face, the worst of which is covered by a bandage. More white wrapped around his head, just above his furrowed brows. His slim shoulders, not in their usual red. No. In green. In a familiar green so old that it's practically grey.

In Grantaire’s hoodie. Enjolras is practically swimming in Grantaire’s hoodie, draped over his thin shoulders, one sleeve dangling. He looks unbelievably. Well. Adorable. He may just as well kill Grantaire for thinking that, but it's true. And Grantaire will keep it to himself.

It's another struggle to get Enjolras out of the car and into the wheelchair. Jehan smiles and takes the key from him. They flow up the walk to unlock the door. “At least you're on the bottom floor, hm?”

The place looks extraordinarily clean, and by the bubble-gum pop music floating in from the kitchen, it is apparent that Courf is still here. The couch is pushed back, the chairs moved back, the coffee table up the wall. Enjolras makes a very unhappy sound. He tries to wheel himself over to where his coffee table once was. But, with only one arm free, all he can manage is to turn himself to face the others. Enjolras gives Grantaire a glare as if he did it. “Where's all of my stuff?”

“No clue,” R chuckles. “Courf's been the one doing this.”

Courf himself moves out into the living room with a grin. “Hey, there you are!” He laughs, too, when Enjolras repeats his question. “Boxed up in your extra room. It's all safe, don't worry. I even labeled it!”

He's so proud of himself that even Enjolras can find nothing to complain over. Grantaire ushers Courf to help Enjolras into his bedroom and promise lunch for all of them. Courf wishes him good luck, and when Grantaire finds that there's nothing lunch-like in the cupboards, he understands why. Someone will have to go shopping for him. Meanwhile, he just whips up some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – even our resident vegan can't complain about that, with Enjolras' mainly organic shelves.

When he carries the tray with a couple sandwiches apiece into Enjolras' room, they've nearly rearranged everything. His bed is closer to the bathroom now, his dressers moved, a night stand pushed on the proper side of his bed. Enjolras himself is perched on top of his comforter. Grantaire gives him his plate first.

“You're a hero,” he mutters before taking a bite that's probably too big for his mouth. They all crowd the bed around him, talking about nothing in particular as they eat. It's nice to forget how bandaged he is, at least for a little while. Courfeyrac puts on some mind-numbing TV and they all relax. The whole place smells delicious, like fresh grapes, and they all take turns talking and telling stories or commenting on something coming from the screen. Jehan eventually abandons their sandwich for combing out Enjolras' hair, which is a mess. Grantaire thinks they hurt him, though, because Combeferre gently takes the brush and switches places with them. Enjolras seems nearly docile at the touches, like a kitten that you know is hiding sharp claws above those cute toe beans. But he remains calm, and Grantaire doesn't know if it's the medication or the exhaustion or any number of other things, but he stays mostly quiet as they watch TV.

Grantaire ends up sitting next to him after loads of switching around through the afternoon, as people get up to take phone calls, wash the lunch dishes, or dip into the bathroom. It's just before dinnertime when Grantaire feels the warmth against his right side. Carefully, he turns his head and looks. Enjolras has fallen asleep, leaning against Grantaire, temple pressed into his shoulder. Curls tumble over his high cheeks, his often hard face, soft this time.

Something draws Jehan's eyes, and they make a soft sound. “I always said that you make a fantastic pillow, Grantaire.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but cannot help the smile on his face. Even with the slight weight on his right arm hurting him a bit, he could not be happier. The volume on the TV gets turned down and they just mutter amongst ourselves, letting him sleep. He needs it. They all probably need it, but for once, Enjolras is the one who needs his friends and they have the chance to actually take care of him. Even if Grantaire is the only one madly IN love with Enjolras, they all do love him. They've all told him a hundred times to slow down, let them do things for him once in a while.

 

And right now, he has no choice in the matter. Enjolras is in the deepest sleep Grantaire has ever seen from him, his mouth hanging barely open. Grantaire pulls the blanket up around him; Courf slips from the bed and pulls said blanket around Grantaire. “You know,” he whispers, “I think I should go. I gotta feed Princess Claudette.”

After Courf's departure to feed his beloved (male) bulldog, things get even quieter. R can't shake the feeling of a double date – with Jehan laying against Combeferre that way, it could feel like nothing but. He wishes his hand wasn't hurt; Grantaire cannot feel Enjolras' knuckles against his through the wrapping.

For dinner, Combeferre orders in pasta. With the state of Enjolras' kitchen, they really have no choice. Everyone eats in the bedroom, of course, and Combeferre makes sure that both Enjolras and Grantaire take their medication. Enjolras eyes Grantaire's wrist again, but says nothing more. Grantaire doesn't want to tell him, especially not today.

By the time the dishes are done, Combeferre looks exhausted. “We should get you home, pet,” Jehan murmurs, stroking a couple of his locs. “We all need some rest, I think.”

“I don't know...Enjolras, will you be alright?”

Before he can open his mouth, Grantaire thumps a hand against his chest. “I'll stay. Uh. If you want me to, that is. Just for a while!”

And to Grantaire's surprise, enough to make his brows shoot up towards his hairline, Enjolras doesn't fight him. Of course Combeferre asks him if, with his wrist, R would be up to it. It takes a moment for Grantaire to convince the both of them that it will be fine, and finally Jehan hands the prescription over. He kisses them goodbye and claps Combeferre on the shoulder on the way out.

“...Grantaire, come back and sit with me while I get some work done,” Enjolras says from his bedroom nearly the moment the door's closed.

“I think not, Mr. Mummy's Curse. You just turn the television to something you like.” Enjolras argues a little, but since his laptop is on the couch and Grantaire won't bring it to him, there is no real argument to be had. As Grantaire climbs back into bed, Enjolras argues with him some more - “You don't need to sit right on top of me.” - and Grantaire fights back - “I am not on top of you, and would you rather I sat out on the sidewalk?” - simply because that is what they do. But finally he gets Enjolras to settle down, and he rests back against the pillows.

At some point, they must've drifted off. Grantaire wakes in the darkening room to Enjolras muttering something and shuffling. The blanket shifts, towards him, piling onto his lap. In his groggy daze, it takes a second to realize that Enjolras is trying to get out of bed. “Hey, hey.” Grantaire reaches across his own chest to grab Enjolras' wrist. “Where y'going? Here, lemme help...”

“No, no...” Enjolras throws his legs out of bed, one stiff and heavy. Yet, he cannot lower himself to the ground. His glance flicks to Grantaire, then the bathroom door.

Ah. “S'alright,” Grantaire mutters. He knows Enjolras is embarrassed for a whole slew of reasons; luckily Grantaire is too tired to have to make an effort of NOT making a big deal out of it. Like it's any other day. He helps Enjolras into the bathroom, then stands outside of the door for a while. Then a while longer. He yawns into his fist, and under that sound, he hears something from the bathroom. A thud that shakes him, then a soft sound, like.

Ah, shit. Like a sob. Grantaire gives it a few more seconds, but when he is sure of what he hears, he knocks on the door. “Enjolras? You alright?”

“Go away,” his voice comes through the door, strangled and unhappy.

Being who he is, Grantaire doesn't listen. “If you're hurting, I need to help you. That's why I STAYED. Come on.” After a sound that he's pretty sure is agreement, Grantaire opens the door.

Enjolras is on the floor just in front of the toilet, boxers barely pulled back up around his hips, hair flounced about his face. And he's crying, lord, he's crying, with his good hand raised to his face, heel of his palm brushing away tears. Grantaire lowers himself to the floor in front of him, next to his outstretched leg. He must be in pain, because even though he grumbles, Enjolras grasps at Grantaire's shirt. His whole body shakes with the force of his breath meant to control those tears. He's still wearing the green hoodie. Grantaire raises his left hand and closes it over Enjolras'. “I hate this,” he mumbles. “I can't stand this.”

Grantaire bites back 'you can't stand at all,' figuring that a joke now, no matter how it bites at him, will upset Enjolras. Instead, Grantaire settles for, “I know. But don't be embarrassed, alright? I'm just here to help you. The others just want the same thing.”

In answer, Enjolras leans forward and wraps his uninjured arm around Grantaire. He's heaven to take into an embrace, again, and Grantaire rocks him a little bit, swaying back and forth. He strokes Enjolras' hair softly, unable to keep his hand out of it. This time, Enjolras lets him, head dropping against his shoulder. Grantaire just murmurs comforts under his breath. He always forgets how fragile Enjolras is to touch; holding him makes Grantaire feel like a bull in a china shop. But Enjolras needs him, and by the grace of some higher being, some ancient deity, he is letting himself fulfill that need. Grantaire can tell that he is trying very hard not to cry.

“It's okay. Let go of it,” Grantaire murmurs, cradling the back of his head.

And most surprisingly of all, he does. Right on his bathroom floor, pantsless and pained, Enjolras cries against him. It's all Grantaire can do to not try and kiss those tears away. He needs to let them out. Grantaire can't help but wonder how long it's been since anyone else has seen his tears. It could be five minutes, or it could be an hour that he trembles, but all too soon, Enjolras lifts that now puffy face to Grantaire. “...thank you,” he says, his voice once more back in his control. “But maybe now we can get away from the toilet.”

One arm still around Enjolras' shoulders, Grantaire presses his knuckles to Enjolras' temple and make a screwing motion. “Alright. Let me.” Grantaire stands up first, then hoists Enjolras into his arms, bridal style.

“Be careful, your hand...” He twists in Grantaire's arms, trying to get a look at it.

“Don't worry yourself so, it's not that bad. And I think it's time you took another painkiller, according to the bottle.” Grantaire had read all of the instructions earlier. “So I'll take mine as well. Then we can be messes for the rest of the night.”

After water and pills, Enjolras takes Grantaire's injured hand in his free one. He turns it over gently, as if trying to deduce the source of the injury from look alone. “You only box on weekends.”

A sharp laugh from Grantaire. “Too correct, Sherlock.”

“So what did you do?”

“...would you believe that I was attacked by a shark and was forced to defend my life in a grand struggle between man and beast?” He shakes his head, and Grantaire admits defeat. Enjolras will find out one way or another, and Grantaire supposes it's best direct from the source. “I. Punched a wall in the hospital. After I found out how you were hurt.”

His eyes darken; even the beginning of the subject reminds Grantaire that he hasn't had a drink all day. Suddenly his throat seems all too dry. But then Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand and rests it on his own lap. “...I was just walking across the street. Had my headphones on. He came out of nowhere and just. Slammed into me. I think I rolled over the hood, but I don't know. It's hard to remember. The police came in and talked to me...was that only this morning? It feels like it was much longer ago. They said that he was unharmed. Taken to jail for the night. I don't even want to think about him.”

“Then you don't have to. Even though I would have given anything to have seen you cooperating with the cops.” His dislike of the brutal ways of a lot of police officers in Paris is well-known. It's worrying. Not that Grantaire likes the cops any better, but Enjolras is vocal, prominent in protests. Anything could happen to him.

“You know that I am never uncooperative with the police, that arrest was ONE time, and I was part of a group. It was just one night. And I would be honoured to be arrested for my beliefs, if that is what it takes to wake people up.” He stops short, then gives Grantaire a dirty look. “We're not talking about that, don't change the subject.”

“I didn't. You were the one who started to rant.” Grantaire shrugs and looks off to the side. Enjolras just pushes against his shoulder.

“Anyways.” Enjolras looks at me, those beautiful eyes serious. “I hope you're kidding. I don't want you taking this so personally that you go around injuring yourself yourself on buildings.” But Grantaire nods slowly, and Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire, this had nothing to do with you.”

“But it could have.” Grantaire's words are biting, and his mouth could bleed from the edge on them. “I'm...a mess. It could have been me.”

“It wasn't. I won't lie. You make a lot of stupid decisions. But not ones like that.” He has no clue that Grantaire has driven so far under the influence that he could hardly see the road. Sheer luck was all that kept him safe on those nights. “And it was not you behind that wheel. Don't take it out on yourself.”

“So says the man who takes everything out on himself? Every failed protest, every unfair legislation, every suspicious death. You take them all on.” R hopes Enjolras will get upset enough that he drops the other.

When a fire lights in Enjolras' eyes, Grantaire knows he's won. “That's different, that's something I can HELP with, if I was just pushing harder!” Grantaire lets him go, knowing that he'll wear himself out quickly. Even with all of his napping today, Enjolras' body is still under a lot of stress. Soon enough his words fade, and he even trips over them a little bit.

“I'll give you a pass tonight, Apollo. We'll bookmark this and come back to it another night. Meanwhile, are you hungry? Do you want a snack before bed?” It's nearing 11 by this point. Yet, the night feels so much later than that.

When he says that he thinks there's some popcorn left in the cupboard, Grantaire bounds to the kitchen. Indeed there is. And, when he checks the fridge for drinks, Grantaire finds a previously unseen bottle of wine. It's uncorked and lazily resealed over with a plastic baggie and a rubber band. Must have been a gift from one of the others. Grantaire pulls it out and undoes the rubber band. It smells fine, and Grantaire knows Enjolras sometimes has a glass, so he assumes it only could have been open for a couple days. The smell draws him in, even though I'm not huge on red wine AND it's alcohol content is barely enough to say so. Grantaire takes a couple of long swigs from the bottle as he waits for the microwave; it's not going to do a thing for him, but the wine is just enough to take the edge off.

Once the popcorn is made, Grantaire settles back into bed with Enjolras and a deck of cards he found in the mess of a kitchen drawer. With their injuries and buttery hands, War is a little trouble, but it's simple enough and Grantaire also happens to know that it's the only card game Enjolras knows the rules to. He's fun to play with, and as the game drags along, the memories of the past couple days fade a little bit. Nothing is okay – far from it. But Enjolras and Grantaire are both here, and he's laughing with each winning play, so for now things are stable. And Grantaire has come to learn that he can ask for no more than that.


End file.
